


If You Were Here

by MooseFeels



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Anna, Alpha Dean, Alpha Michael, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Drug Use, Forbidden Love, Gardens & Gardening, Knotting, M/M, Masturbation, Omega Castiel, Physical Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Ideation, Verbal Abuse, World War I, high society - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-21
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-02-09 19:05:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 25,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1994382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel is an omega, a position that leaves him subject to the whims of the social order and the caprices of his parents. His betrothed is shipped off to the Norman front the day after their arrangement is reached, and he is left to live in the empty manor by himself, with his sister and the single servant they have kept on to cook and clean. <br/>Castiel has begun to adjust to the fact that he will die here, a trophy on a rich man's arm, when he decides that he really should do something about the house gardens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was initially written as an a/b/o bang but I was irritated that I couldn't post so much of what I already had and that it wouldn't see the light of day for such a long time. So I decided to drop out and start posting it early! There's a blog for the story at http://onlytoriseandfallagain.tumblr.com to give you an idea of what I was thinking of and what I was drawing from as I wrote this.  
> It's also hella anachronistic. Very sorry.

"You will save all of us," his mother murmurs as she adjusts his shirt. "We are so lucky that Michael wants you."

Castiel shifts from foot to foot. He stands a little taller over his mother but not much. The collar digs into his throat and his waistcoat pulls tight around his body. The tails trail to knees. His unruly, dark hair has been slicked back and plastered to his head. He has been washed and dressed within an inch of his life.

"Yes, mother," Castiel answers.

She smooths her hand over his forehead. "Don't fret," she chides. "If he sees the worry marks, he may think you are anxious. Anxious omegas do not perfect spouses make."

"Yes mother," he replies.

Her hand cradles his face briefly. Her blues eyes are bright and slightly teary.

"You will restore us. Our honor," she says. Her hand rests there. She looks at him.

She turns away as suddenly as she touched him.

"Go," she says. "I will be out soon."

Castiel stands at the door for a few moments and then he opens it.

He steps away from his adolescence and towards his engagement to a stranger.

The parlor is very, very large. It has wide windows with lush velvet drapes. Lots of low furniture upholstered in cream colored silk.

The women wear gowns. The men are dressed much as Castiel is. He stands a little shorter than they, though. The way some of them look at him, he knows that they think he should be in a gown, too, with a ribbon or a tiara in his dark hair.

Father would not let this go that far. Stopped mother from taking him to the seamstress.

Michael stands tall by the window. He steps forward when Castiel enters the room. He takes his arm without looking at him in the eye. He is wordless and serious.

It happens just that quickly.

 

* * *

 

The conscription laws are very specific, so the day after Castiel is promised to him, Michael steps onto the olive green steam train in his fine uniform.

"I suppose I shall see you once the war is won," he says. Cold is not quite the right word for Michael, but open is not the right word either. He is serious. He is grim. He is as clean and necessary and firm as the grain alcohol and snow smell of his musk. Sharp.

Castiel nods. "I will wait," he answers. "My sisters will come and help."

Michael nods. "I know that you make socks with the league. That is an honorable action. Very good."

Michael is a very firm believer in honor. He has dark hair and sharp eyes. He stands taller than Castiel, his posture is perfectly erect. His cavalry boots are made of fine, polished leather. His uniform is wool. He wears the buttons and patches and chevrons and badges of an officer.

A great plume of steam rises from the train and Michael turns, sharply, to watch it.

"We will start a family, when I return. Get properly married," he says. "Until then, stay...chaste."

He leans forward, pulling Castiel to him by the shoulders. He kisses the top of his head, more like a father than a betrothed.

He climbs on that train and rides away to the front. To France.

Castiel stands at the platform for a very long time.

"Castiel," Anna says to him. "It is time to leave."

Castiel nods. The sun sets. They walk back to the house Castiel lives in now. Along the road, carriages and automobiles rumble by. Castiel cannot own an automobile and he has never gotten on well with horses. He doesn’t mind the walk, though. It’s not too bad at all.

It stands on a great spate of land out at the edge of town. A huge, green lawn spreads in front of it, verdant and lush. It grows long and soft in the summers, but now, in the spring, it is just barely beginning to come up. In the back of the house, the azaleas have just begun to bloom, white and pink and purple. A huge tree buds. Soon, wisteria will bloom bright along the arbors. The garden was built as a vanity, for parties and lunches and long walks in the summer. All of the gardeners were conscripted, though, so it has overgrown in some places. It hasn’t seen maintenence since the fall.

The plants are beautiful and warm, if a little overgrown. Even if the inside of the house is as cold as Michael, even if it is built of old stone that stands frigid.

Anna opens the servant’s door and they step inside.

The maid, a blonde girl named Jo, looks up from where she is sweeping. A fire burns low in the hearth, to fight the early spring chill.

"Thank you, Jo," Castiel says. "That will be fine."

"Master Mich-"

"It will be fine," he interrupts. "Please, take your supper and pay." He hands her three heavy pieces of silver.

She holds it in her hand for a long moment and looks back up at Castiel. She curtsies shortly and dashes back toward her own quarters.

"Castiel, you can't pout for the rest of your life," Anna says once Jo has left the room.

"I am an adult, Anna, I will feel as I please," he bites.

He may be an omega. He may be small bodied and delicate, he may be driven by his body once a season to mate, he may be sold by his family to richer lines to ensure their personal fortunes, but he will feel as he pleases for the rest of his life. They cannot take that from him.

Anna's face almost looks sad. She is an alpha and he is an omega. They are both wrong bodied; she will die as a spinster in the home Castiel will make here, barren and unwed. No respectable family will take her for her wrongness. Sometimes, it looks like she almost understands.

It is hard not to be bitter, though, with the knowledge that she will vote, that she will own all of Castiel's property, that if Michael dies she will be guardian to his children.

"I'm sorry," he says. It is not her fault.

Anna nods. "I know," she answers. "Come, we have socks to make."

Castiel follows her, placidly.

They sit in the drawing room and knit, quickly. Silently. They knit until it becomes too dark to work, when long shadows gather around the old portraits of line, and then they go to bed.

Anna may sleep, but Castiel doesn't. The room is large and empty. It is full of old furniture carved in dark, heavy wood. It is the wife's room. It is his room now.

Castiel sits in front of the wide, round vanity for a long time, moonlight coming through the window just enough light to render his face visible.

He sits there for a long time, the four poster bed untouched.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The first letter comes three weeks later. It is written on neat, clean paper in Michael's even, flowing hand.

_Castiel-_

_Summer will be coming to the house soon. Hire a gardener, for the wisteria quickly becomes unruly. The heat, I expect, would not be good for your physiology. I would hate for you to fall ill while I am gone. Should that occur, Gabriel, my brother, is a doctor. He is quite trustworthy if rather brash. We have an agreement._

_The front pushes on. I expect to be home by Christmas._

_Michael._

Castiel holds the letter, sitting at the table in the kitchen for a long time. He spends most of his time in the kitchen, the drawing room, and his bedroom. The formal dining hall is too large for real use and it’s not fair to make Jo pull the china and silver out for every meal. They’ve shrouded most of the furniture in the other rooms and drawn the drapes.

He refolds it and places it back in the envelope. He slides the gloves back onto his hands and steps back outside, to the garden.

Castiel ran the garden in the house where he grew up and now he runs the garden here. He loves it. He loves gardens. He loves plants and the birds and bees that light along the leaves and flowers. It is a different kind of garden than was at the house where he had lived as a child- it is a rigid, symmetrical thing, made of evenly trimmed hedges ringing around greenish duck ponds and rigorously, mercilessly trimmed trees.

They say the heat will make him ill. Bring on false biological heats that could make him infertile.

He has worked harder on hotter days than this.

He is weeding the lilies in the back when Anna steps out of the door in gloves and a hat of her own.

"I'm going to cut back the wisteria," she says. "If you need me, call."

Castiel nods.

His life here is quiet. A little lonely. Jo comes and cooks and cleans a bit. Anna assists. He gardens. He knits socks and socks and socks for the effort. He reads. He writes. He paints in wobbling watercolors. He goes into town on Sundays for church and for the Omega's League.

_By Christmas_ , he thinks.

By Christmas, Michael will come back and this system will collapse. They will have maids and gardeners and cooks. And Castiel will stay inside and organize for charities and knit and embroider. He will have a marriage bed and children that he will not know or nurse. Anna will work with women's leagues and ride and write. Michael will come back and make trophies of both of them.

Castiel finds a particularly hardy weed in the garden, one he can't quite get purchase on. He tugs off his gloves and grasps it as tightly as he can and pulls. Prickles bite into his hand. He pulls harder and the thing is yanked out of the dirt. He throws it, this ugly invader as hard as he can and it sails through the air, landing ugly on the lawn.

This angry thing.

Castiel pants with the effort, resisting the urge to scream. He takes a deep breath and tugs his gloves back on.

He has to be dignified. He as to be controlled. He has to be as cold as this house. As cold as Michael.

He walks to grab the weed from the lawn and goes back inside.

 

* * *

 

He spends another month alone, him and Anna and Jo. He knits more socks. Embroiders flowers on handkerchiefs. High summer has come, hot enough that he can only really work outside in the early morning when the dew is out. He sleeps through the broiling noon. Anna reads. Jo cleans their house, as usual.

Jo is an omega, like Castiel but not like Castiel. She is of no circumstance, no money. She is no one.

He has come back inside from gardening, pouring himself a tall glass of water, when a huge noise comes up the drive.

He pauses and listens before he runs his hands through his unruly hair and walks to the front hall. They have no butlers here. He doesn't need them. There is a society understanding that Enoch Hall is closed until the end of the war. They cannot afford the luxuries, really, and without Michael here, Castiel is a trophy with no one to hold him.

He opens the door. An automobile sits in the driveway, and a short man pulls himself from the driver's seat.

"You must be Castiel!" He exclaims. "I'm Gabriel, the brother you never had!"

He wears nice clothes and a jaunty hat. He has a cane and walks with a slight limp. "Michael told me you would be out here all on your own but I didn't realize the staff would be gone, too."

Castiel is suddenly completely aware of the dirt and sweat on his clothes and body. That he is not the fine omega of the house to greet his betrothed's brother.

Gabriel adjusts his hat and smiles, mischievously. "Well, aren't you going to invite me in?"

"You're Michael's brother," Castiel says. "The doctor."

Gabriel nods. "Yeah, that's right." He comes up the stairs to stand next to Castiel, smiling. "You don't know what today is, do you?"

Castiel shakes his head, slowly.

Gabriel smiles again. "Michael's birthday," he says. "I thought you might want company, what with missing your beloved betrothed." He smiles again, and the expression isn't really good natured but it isn't really venomous either. It's aware.

Castiel turns away from him, blushing.

Gabriel taps his cane against the steps a few times. "Look," he says, "we both know what the engagement is. I'm not going to ask you to pretend to love him." He pauses. "I know you must be lonely up here on the hill. Let me take you and your sister to dinner. Come out."

"I need to wash and dress," he answers.

Gabriel shrugs. "I have plenty of time. I'll browse my childhood home and you'll get ready. It'll be a grand old time."

Castiel pauses.

He looks at Gabriel.

He nods.

Castiel goes upstairs and washes his face and combs his hair. He pushes scented powder under his armpits and puts on clean clothes, nice clothes that he hasn't worn in months. A starched shirt and tie and waistcoat. Fine trousers and clean shoes.

His hair is still unruly and he is still unfashionably tanned from staying outside all morning, but at least he is dressed.

He comes back down the stairs, and passes by Anna.

"You're dressed," she comments.

"Michael's brother is taking us to lunch," he says.

Anna raises her eyebrows. "I'll need twenty minutes," she answers. "Be sociable."

Gabriel is in the parlor, reading a book casually. He looks up when Castiel enters and he smiles. "It's strange to see the house like this," he comments. "When we were children, it was full. Constantly. Father threw lots of parties." He smiles, almost fondly. "It was fun sometimes."

"With the war on, the social season appears to be closed," Castiel comments. "And with Michael gone, I'm not supposed to have the house open. I'm only promised not...mated."

Gabriel nods and closes the book. He puts it back on the shelf. "You could open it, if you wanted to," he replies. "They would understand, there wouldn't be any real scandal."

Castiel looks away from Gabriel suddenly.

"You can keep it closed, too," Gabriel says.

He feels a blush on his cheeks. "We never hosted," he murmurs. "And when I came of age, Father's...father's debts meant that we couldn't afford to put all of us into society."

He is being very rude right now, being so candid, but he cannot help it. It is so hard not to talk about.

"I was wondering why you never came to season," Gabriel comments.

"Have you wedded?" Castiel asks.

Gabriel shakes his head. "No," he answers. "No, respectable families are not interested in what I have to offer; Michael was the real catch. I'm  younger and I had an...adventurous youth." He pulls the leg of his trouser up, revealing a slip of metal where his leg should be. He taps it with his cane. He smiles, though. "I never really wanted it all, anyway. And with no wife, there's no one to be furious with me when I come home late from the clinic."

He smiles again. "Looks like this thing will save my life, too. They don't like to send amputees to war, as it happens," he says. He looks at Castiel, something a little sad in his eyes. "I'd like us to be friends," he says. "I understand, if we can't. I don't...I won't pretend to fully understand the position you're in, but I know you must be lonely. I know it's hard to be the black sheep."

Castiel looks at Gabriel, who stands a little short. His hair is a little too long but he has kind eyes, so light brown they are almost golden.

“You weren’t at the...you weren’t there when we were introduced, Michael and I. The rest of the family was,” Castiel comments.

Gabriel smiles again, his thumb stroking over the head of his cane, back and forth. “Michael had invited me, but Uriel forbade it. Old battle axe doesn’t speak to me anymore, not since I took a profession. And the leg. You know, I don’t think it was the duel that upset him so badly, I think it was really the brothel. Well, who I was in bed with.” He chuckles, blushing slightly.

Anna steps inside in a green dress, her hair twisted up in a low chignon.

"Ah!" Gabriel exclaims. "You must be the lovely Anna. You've been a legend for years now, uncommonly beautiful and a sharp tongue, too. Shame your mother insisted on hiding you away for so long."

Anna smiles, her smile when she knows she's being flattered.

"You must be Gabriel," she says. "And Castiel says that we are accompanying you to lunch."

* * *

 

The second letter comes in early October, when the grass just begins to dry and the leaves just begin to turn. They have a pantry full of jam and preserves and Anna has started riding on weekends with Gabriel. Soon she will start bringing home game. Castiel has started working on preparing the garden for the winter, working usually until about noon and then coming in for a short lunch. He washes then washes and sews until dinner- if not embroidering, he is knitting gloves for men on the front.

_Castiel-_

_The war continues. We are beginning to drive deeper and deeper into France. I am told the fall rains are coming soon and with them mud. The men who have been here longer than I have informed me of this with no small bitterness. Already the nights grow quite chill. When I return, we will be wed and you shall keep our bed warm and I shall not have to suffer chill again. I shall be back by February._

_Michael_

Castiel refolds the letter and puts it back in its envelope. He looks at the address and stamps on the front of it. No return address, nothing he could contact. Even if Castiel wanted to write a letter to Michael, he couldn't send it anywhere.

The Omega's league, they have begun writing letters and Christmas cards to send the front in December. The news came to them slowly, but it has become clear that the war is going to last into the New Year.

Castiel picks the letter back up and holds it tight in his hands. He pulls at the paper and then tears it in half. He tears it in half again. And again. And again. Lets the scraps settle on the table in a pile.

He is not his bedwarmer.

Castiel leaves the kitchen without eating anything and walks up the narrow stairway into the dining room. From the dining room to the parlor and from the parlor to the main hall. From the main hall, he walks up the stairs to his bedroom.

They covered the portraits to protect them from the sun and dust long ago. It protects Castiel from their eyes, from being found. It makes him feel like a ghost, though. A stranger in someone else's house. He still is, really. This isn't his home. This isn't his furniture, his curtains, his books, his paintings.

Michael's not even here and Castiel's a prisoner to him and his net of family members.

Mother had drilled him, over and over, on his family members. At least, the ones that were decent and civilized people, Castiel, the kind you will associate with. Their marriages, their children, their names and names and names. They settle inside of him like a stone, like a weight tearing him downward.

Castiel sits down on the bed, the bed Jo made earlier. He strokes his hand over the bedspread and he lays back on top of it. He takes long, deep breaths and closes his eyes.

When he was a child, he used to run up to the nursery and hide in his closet, when the world seemed too big, when Father and Mother would fight, when the rugs and paintings slowly began to disappear from the house to pay the debts.

The bedroom is beginning to feel like a safe place much like the nursery did. It has even begun to smell like him, not like the rose and mothball cocktail of whoever had lived here before him.

HIs life is so strange these days. It is placid and quiet in a way that terrifies him. It is like his life is a silent, unmoving lake that he drifts upon. The house and garden are consumed by a terrible silence, punctuated only by the sound of roots ripping out of the earth, Jo’s clanging in the kitchen, the clack of knitting needles industriously creating sock after sock after sock.  

It scares him.

Is this everything? When Michael comes back, he will birth him children and then, will it just be more of this awful silence?

The people in the league, they seem so happy, but Castiel feels the wrongness building in him like a storm.

He knows there's something wrong with him, that maybe there always has been something wrong with him.

He curls up around himself and closes his eyes. He decides to be asleep and unfeeling for a little while.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

It's November when Castiel's first heat at Enoch Hall happens.

Anna walks into his bedroom one morning and turns around. "I'll talk to Gabriel," she says from outside of the door. "He'll help you."

Castiel grasps at the sheets. The fever of it makes him ache and burn and shake. He whimpers and cries out, feeling so empty and hollow and broken.

"Need," he pants, "need- need Michael."

It doesn't matter that Castiel doesn't love Michael, that he doesn't even know Michael. It doesn't matter that he's dying of mustard gas in a ditch in the North of France; Castiel needs him _here_ , now. This is why he promised himself to him- he's not supposed to suffer through these anymore. He's supposed to be _filled_ and _bred_ and _pregnant_. They have an _arrangement_. There was a _promise_. And now Castiel is alone in a room he doesn't know with no one to touch him, to heal him, to make it bearable.

He doesn't know how long he lays there, but Jo comes in eventually, with a pitcher full of water and a pile of cured fish. She artfully lays a long, porcelain false knot on his nightstand and curtsies, up and down, and leaves.

Castiel pants in the room for a few moments, and then he reaches over to the nightstand and grabs it.

It's cold going in, and it stretches him but it doesn't burn at all. It seats inside of him and while it's not big enough, it's all he has.

He rides it, alone, for the three days his heat lasts.

 

* * *

 

February comes and goes.

No letter. Nothing.

 

* * *

 

The war continues on into the Spring. It stretches through the height of the summer. It goes on and on, still no letter from Michael.

Castiel spends his time like he's spent all of his life. In the garden and reading and sleeping. He talks to Gabriel, goes to dinner with him and Anna, he knits piles and piles and piles of socks.

It's August, nearly September, and it has become warm enough that Castiel must once again work through the morning and evening and sleep in the afternoon. Even then, he is still tanned. He eats sparsely, mostly from the vegetables in the greenhouse secreted away past the arbors and the bread and fruit Jo brings from market. Meat is expensive, milk more so. It means that any baby fat that had stayed around on him thinned out to become lean muscle. He looks a little wiry, not soft and pale like omegas should.

Castiel wakes up one morning at six and stretches. He washes his face and gets dressed. He goes downstairs to the kitchen and grabs an apple and steps out into the yard.

The wisteria is starting to get unruly, and after that he needs to start looking at where trees need to be trimmed for winter pruning and the flower beds always need weeding.

Jo takes care of the inside of the house and Castiel takes care of the outside. Anna takes care of the money, the mail, and other people.

It's lonely and its quiet, and some days are colored by the cold fear that Michael has died and Castiel will be left with nothing.

 

* * *

 

He steps outside, through the servant's entrance, and there's a man there.

Castiel freezes in space.

The man is taller than he is. He has blonde, brown hair and skin covered in freckles. He looks tired, like he hasn't slept in a few days. He has a dusting of stubble over his cheeks and jaw. He wears worn clothes and carries a knapsack.

Castiel stands there for a few moments, unnerved.

"May I help you?" He finally asks.

The guy looks a little startled. Worried. "Sorry- sorry," he says. "Your, uhm, your gardener, may I speak with him?"

Castiel doesn't say anything for a moment, thinking through this, what's happening here.

"This is he," he answers.

"Oh," the man says, nodding. His voice is low and rough. "Your, um, your wisteria. You've over managed it. The gardens in Europe, what remains of them, they like the uh, the really drippy quality. Naturalistic. When the season comes back, the family will be cross if you keep it up."

"The master of the house was quite clear about the wisteria," Castiel answers. "He likes it well groomed."

"Well, now he does," he says. "But by summer, the trend will have carried over from the continent-"

"If the continent is still there," Castiel interrupts.

The guy shifts from foot to foot. Nervous.

"I'm sorry," he says. "Sorry. I had just heard in town that maybe the house would need help with the garden and-"

"You're looking for a job?" he asks.

The man nods. "I just got back," he says. "From- from the war. And my old job, it's not...they don't want me back.  I don't really-"

"Come with me," Castiel says. "It'll be fall soon. Lots of work to do here."

"Really?" The guy asks. "The master of the house won't-"

"My husband is in the...trenches," Castiel says. "I'm the master of the house while he's away."

He walks towards the other end of the property, where the beds of flowers grow and the trees crawl up to the sky.  

There is a weighty pause and then footsteps as the man catches up to him.

"You're...are you serious?" He asks, sounding aghast.

"Quite," Castiel says. "My name is Novak, Castiel Novak. You would be?"

"Uh, Dean," he says. "Mr. Novak, I didn't mean to be disrespectful, I thought-"

"I know quite well what you thought," he interrupts. "It was a fair assumption. Do you have a last name or just a first one?"

"Winchester," he says. "Dean Winchester."

"Well, Mr. Winchester, you have told me that there is a trend toward more naturalistic wisteria on the continent and that after the war it will be the rage. I need to make a naturalistic garden for when my...my husband comes home." He takes off his gloves and hands them to Dean. "You will start work immediately on those beds while I fetch paper and pencils. I can pay you what we pay our maid and not much more but you can stay in the servant's quarters and take meals with us. Would this be an arrangement that agrees with you?"

Dean Winchester looks at Castiel blankly for a few moments. He blinks. He nods, almost anxiously.

"Yes, Mr. Novak," he says.

"Good, Mr. Winchester. I shall be back momentarily."

Castiel's heart thunders in his chest as he walks back to the house.

He's hired a gardener.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

"Castiel," Anna says on Wednesday of the next week, "who is that in the garden?"

She stands in the parlor, looking out of the back window at the garden.

"That would be our gardener," Castiel answers. He doesn't even look up. Who else would be there?

"He is doing rather a lot of work," she says, almost off-hand.

"He's back from the war," Castiel says. "I am told by him that romantic gardens are going to be quite in fashion once the war is done."

"What if they aren't?" She asks. "The estate has seemed rather invested in baroque styling for the grounds."

"Then we'll tear it up and we'll put it back in," Castiel replies.

It is hot. Late October and the summer heat has come back for a last hurrah. It should pass soon, though, and if the barometer in the kitchen is anything to go by, they will probably get a storm tonight that will sweep in the chill of late autumn.

In the past week, Winchester has torn sod to gentle the edges of the beds into soft, sloping curves and un-seated hedges out of their vicious order. It's better incorporated the arbors back into the overall shape of the garden- it has already changed the space enormously. Castiel's glanced at his plan, though. There's still much work to do, and Castiel will be glad to assist him through the winter.

The pile of socks grows ever larger.

"Who recommended him to you?" She asks.

"Gabriel," he lies, easily. "He'd just come back from the war and needed a job. We needed a gardener."

Anna lets the drapes drift back to their loose hanging state.

"Gabriel has invited me to a party tonight," she says. "I am sure his invitation extended to you as well, if you would like to come."

Castiel freezes in his stitches and thinks for a moment.

It's been so long since he went to a party. Since he saw anyone. And when Michael comes back, he'll be trapped here.

It wouldn't look right, though. It wouldn't be proper.

He can't afford to make a scandal.

"I'll be fine here," he says. "Have a good evening."

Anna turns and looks at him. Her long hair has been tucked into her customary low bun. She wears carmel and tan colors, loose and heavy draping shapes. Wide pleats emphasize the shape of her hips and body. She wears a pendant made of heavy garnets- one of the few pieces of jewelry she owns. Mother and father couldn't afford much for her and she doesn't wear much by way of ornamentation. She dresses simply. She is still quite beautiful, though.

It is a tragedy that she may never marry.

"You don't have to stay in," she says. "No one could blame you."

"Michael could," Castiel says. And he knows Michael would. Cold, impersonal Michael who bought his betrothed.

Anna leaves the room.

Castiel stitches for maybe an hour more, and then he gets up and walks back up to his bedroom.

The closet is full of clothing that is not his. Old furs and aging silk gowns. Relics, much like the furniture, that were in this room before he got here.

Michael's parent's passed many years ago. In the room across from Castiel's is the room where Michael will sleep.

Castiel hasn't even gone in there- just stared at it like the tall, impossible space that it is.

He will have to have a wedding night, in that room .

The thought leaves him frozen. Terrified.

He changes his clothes and comes back downstairs and heads outside.

* * *

 

The war breaks out and Dean and Sam are among some of the earliest to be drafted and sent to the continent.

It had been six months since either of them had seen their father.

"Think of it this way," Dean had said as they rode the train to the base for training, "you'll finally get to see all them pretty cities."

Sam had smiled, even though he was pale and nervous.

Dean would have given anything to not have his younger brother there. Four years younger but stronger, brighter, more brilliant that Dean had ever been.

They both were so scared. A last hug before training. Sam's way of smiling like he was so sad.

Dean spent two years in the field before he picked up pneumonia in February and then spent four months in a hospital at the Western edge of France, far away from the front, and by the time he was well enough to breathe for more than seconds at a time, the military had decided they didn't need him any more.

So now he's back and he doesn't know where Sam is.

It eats at him, at every minute of the day. They didn't have a house or a homestead of their own- no return address, nowhere to send letters to tell him where he is.

All Dean knows is that maybe he isn't dead, and that's all that can keep him together.

He tears up sod and he hopes that Sam's alive. He trims branches and hopes Sam is alive. He replants flowers and vines, tames wisteria and hopes- god, does he hope- that his brother isn't dead in a trench or buried in one of the huge cemeteries they're erecting in France.

Maybe one day, Dean will want to see Paris again, or Alsace-Lorraine. Maybe the sound of the language or the crack of lightening won't make his heart speed up too fast. It's not coming any time soon, though.

He's working out in the sun- unseasonably warm for this close to the fall- when the master of the house comes out through the servants quarters in trousers and shirtsleeves.  

Novak is a strange man. His husband is still away at war, and he's apparently reluctant to hire an entire staff while he's away. The house is strange- with the exception of himself and a maid named Jo, the servants quarters are empty and silent. The rest of the rooms are quiet, too. Only Novak and his pretty, spinster sister live upstairs The house is full of rooms covered in sheets with the drapes drawn. Still, though, the pay is better than anything Dean has ever gotten anywhere else.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Winchester," he greets as he comes through the garden to where Dean is working- he's replanting trees today.

"Mr. Novak," Dean greets in response.

"Please," he says, like he always does, "Call me Castiel."

Dean leans against his shovel. "I don't want to be too familiar, sir," Dean says. He's gotten in trouble being too familiar a few times before, at other estates when he was younger and was working as a spare hand. "I'll call you by your name when you use mine," he says, for probably the thirtieth time.

Novak grabs another shovel and digs into the raw, dark dirt.

He works hard next to Dean, but he doesn't seem to mind.

"I like your plan for this straight," he says. "The neoclassical structure is rather stifling. It will be nice to have something that will break up the light."

Dean scratches his head for a moment. "I don't know about all of that, sir," he says. "Just know that in a couple of years, with the water and light you get on this spot the oaks will be large enough to support azaleas and the soil here will make them bloom pale, pale pink. It'll look nice- break up some of the green everywhere. I mean, the green is nice, but it'll be good to have waves of pastels through the seasons. Azaleas in late spring and summer, pansies in the winter and fall, tulips, daffodils, and crocuses in the early spring. I'm thinking about roses, too, where there's more direct sun, of course."

Novak smiles at him, something gentle and shy. "Roses would be grand," he says softly. "We could have them for the house, too. Inside. Have some life in there," he murmurs. He blushes suddenly, as if he's realized that he's said too much.

Dean turns back to the dirt, fills in where he's planted the sapling.

It's a fairly tall one, too- the nursery has a truck that can deliver saplings that are nearly seven feet tall. They'll put down roots through the winter and come spring shoot up with bright green foliage.

Novak digs about thirty feet away from him while Dean stakes and ties the tree, covers the roots.

He has to lug buckets of water a fair ways from the tap to get the thing soaked into the ground, and by the time the tree Novak has put in is watered too the sun has settled down, and the temperature dropping suddenly.

Dean gathers the tools in the wheelbarrow and Novak stretches.

Dean's just begun to wheel the tools back to the shed when he hears someone say, "Cassie, come out with us. You can't stay locked up here forever."

"Gabriel," Novak sighs at the stranger. He sounds equally breathless and exasperated. "I really, I really can't."

"Look," the stranger says- Gabriel-"what Michael doesn't know-"

"But he would know," Novak interrupts. "Eventually. There would be pictures or someone would find out and then where would Anna and I be- what would we do?" He pauses. "Your brother...Gabriel, your brother doesn't seem at all forgiving."

"It's not some big season ball," Gabriel says. "It's a private engagement. You can dress up and actually talk to some people. Make some friends- I know that you hate the Omega's League, Cassie, Anna told me-"

"Please," Novak says. "Please, just...just leave me be."

He sounds tired, Dean thinks. More tired than a day of working in the sun.

The stranger, Gabriel, he sighs. "You don't have to live like this," he says.

As Dean's pushing the wheelbarrow away, he can just barely hear Novak say, "Please don't pretend like it was my choice, Gabriel."

Dean wanders off toward the shed with the wheelbarrow and thinks about his employer.

He and Sam, they both presented alpha when they came of age. It had been a relief- meant that Dean wouldn't be sent to a home and it meant that Sam wouldn't be either. Meant that Dean could stick around to protect him and it meant that the state wouldn't try to step in to protect Sam for him.

Course, same thing sent his little brother to the front to be lost to him.

Dean tries not think about Sam. Tries not to torture himself that way.

It's hard not to.

When he comes back, Novak stands in the garden, watching the stranger walk away.

He's a slim man, a little smaller than Dean. He has the taught, close muscle of someone who doesn't work for a living. His trousers are pulled tight at his waist and his shirt billows over the belt of it slightly. His collar is open to the air. His hand rests on his shovel, leaning slightly.

The sun sets before him, backlighting him.

It makes Dean think of the paintings he saw, that day in Paris, the blurry kind made in smudgy paints so thick he wanted to reach out and touch them. Kind of rough and loose and romantic.

Quite pretty, really.

Dean shakes his head.

"Sir," he coughs.

"Castiel," he interrupts. "Please. Call me Castiel, Dean." His voice is taught. Serious.

"Si- Castiel," Dean says. "May I take your shovel? The sun is setting."

"Of course," Novak answers, He moves like he's been snapped out of a spell. He hands the shovel to Dean and suddenly wipes his eyes. "Thank you for your work today."

He wanders back to the house.

Dean doesn't watch him go. He walks to the shed.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

Gabriel leaves and Castiel goes back to the big, empty house and he's so angry and he's so tired. He's so tired of being tired and he's so tired of being angry.

He stands in the kitchen for a long, terrible moment and then he goes upstairs through the servant's stairwell to draw himself a bath.

He hates the huge formal stairwell of the hall. He hates the thick carpet in bright vermillion and the heavy, dark wood. There is something about it that feels so wrong to him. The house he lived in with his mother and father and Anna was quite fine and the had a maid and a cook but it was nothing like this, not nearly so large. That fortune had been gambled away long before father could get to it.

The bathroom, though, he thinks he doesn't mind.

The warm running water at any time of night is a blessing, especially in a bath as large as the one in this bathroom.

It is heavy, octagonal marble, and when it gets hot it carries the warmth as the water cools.

The water thunders as it pours in and Castiel strips, leaving his clothes in a pile where they fall. The electric lights are dim and yellow but the mirrors reflect them back all around. Castiel steps into the bath and sighs, happily.

He is sore, pleasantly, from digging and planting and tearing at the sod. The water is like a balm, and it embraces him.

Almost feels like there could be someone else in there with him. Something comforting and real.

He rubs himself with the white, fragrant soap, pulling the sweat and dirt of the day off of him. He massages his muscles slightly as he does so, pulling the soreness away from his bones and tendons.

He closes his eyes and the warmth of the tub feels so right.

It has been a few months since his last heat- he's due in the next few weeks. He can feel it. He's woken up hard in his shorts a few times this week. His heart races sometimes. He feels over warm under his clothes throughout the day.

He inhales long and slow and feels his blood race through him suddenly, dangerously. He gasps a little bit, desire like a fire out of nowhere. He bites his lip and lets his hand rest just over the bones of his hip.

The water is still warm.

He is not supposed to do this. Omegas like him, they're not supposed to touch themselves, not _there_. Just false knots during heats and a few fingers every now and then.

"Castiel," his father had told him with a stern voice, "the only time you are to touch your...your penis, _boy_ , is when you take it in and out of your trousers to piss."

And Castiel, good Castiel, had nodded and blushed and said yes sir.

So much harder to listen to those instructions now that he's not eleven, though.

He moves lower and feels himself grow hard and he inhales again, stuttering slightly.

"F-fuck," he whispers, wrapping his hand around his dick.

This is so dirty.

He runs his thumb over and around the head of his cock and jacks it. The sensation blazes through him. The water is so warm, it brings the blood to his skin. He feels himself start to sweat and he runs his free hand through his hair, trailing water through it.

He touches himself and he cannot help it.

" _Fuck_ , _fuck_ , _fuck_ ," he murmurs. He closes his eyes tight against the light of the bathroom and tries to think of someone else touching him like this. No one would, of course. As an omega, his cock is almost vesitigial. Unimportant. He will be lucky if Michael would even consider fucking him with Castiel not on his knees.

He tries to imagine Michael with his cold eyes and stern face touching him like this. He huffs in frustration- the image is so beyond him that it is more than fantasy. Impossible.

He thinks of warm eyes instead, green ones, maybe. Looking at him with light and spark. Happily. Smiling.

Thinks of freckles, maybe?

Something _zings_ right back through him and yes, freckles definitely. Callouses on hands instead of smooth and soft.

He sighs and keeps jacking himself.

His pace becomes frantic and he keeps going, he keeps going and suddenly that huge white something falls behind his eyes. He cries out as he comes, his voice high and broken. He strokes himself through it and then stills, panting in the dirty bathwater.

He pulls the plug and pulls a towel from the rack.

He dries off and places the towel back on the rack and slips into a thick robe.

He walks quickly back to his bedroom, as if somehow if he leaves the bathroom soon enough his sin will have never transpired.

He slides into underwear, a sleeveless union suit with short legs, and then slips into bed.

He falls asleep easily and sleeps deeply until he is woken by a bright and terrible sound of thunder.

He sits up in bed and looks about the room.

Wind crashes against the house. Lightning snaps bright flashes of sudden light to illuminate the rooms. Thunder follows it like a rough growl.

Castiel takes a deep breath and buries himself back under his blankets. Tries to fall back asleep.

* * *

 

Dean washes himself in the washbasin easily and then settles into the room.

He's living in the butler's quarters right now; the gardener's cottage is fairly far from the house where he takes his meals and from the gardens he's working in. He's far enough from the omega maid, Jo, whose quarters have locks such that Dean could not enter unannounced and if she were to enter heat she could not leave.  

He's more or less alone here. He's alone here most of the time, actually.

He sits in his room in his clothes for a few minutes before he gets up out of bed to look around.

Castiel's caretaker, a fair woman with red hair, is out of the house. Castiel is in the bath- Dean has heard the water be drawn all the way down in the servants quarters.

If he ever wants to see the house, unaccompanied, now would be the time.

He opens the door slowly and looks down the darkened hallway.

No one.

There wouldn't be.

He steps out slowly, quietly. Shuts the doors behind himself.

The stairwell from the servant's quarter to the parlor is easily found, and in the light of the moon, the long room is eerie. There are books along the back wall and tall houseplants that have been cultivated and cared for, presumably by Castiel. There are fine pieces of furniture in dark wood and leather and velvet.

Dean creeps quietly and lays his hands on the books. More words than he has read in probably his whole life are on this wall. There is something uncanny to it.

He looks from the bookcase to the beautiful fireplace and there, on the mantle, is a portrait.

The portrait is of a man with dark, neat hair. He has a strong jawline, striking features. He has cold, clear eyes.  

Something about him makes Dean feel cold.

He looks at the portrait, a nameplate underneath.

Michael Enoch.

He frowns.

Something about his eyes burns. So cold they burn.

Dean turns away and leaves the parlor.

He has gotten back to his bedroom and slid under his sheets when the rain starts. The thunder and lightning follow shortly after.

“Just a storm," he murmurs. "Just a storm. Nothing else, just a-"

A vicious and close sting of lightning zips through and he feels his heart race suddenly. Thunder cracks intensely and Dean squeezes his eyes shut, trying to calm down, to fucking breathe.

"Fuck," he murmurs. He tries to look around the room for maybe a lamp or a candle, but with his hands shaking this badly, this suddenly, he knows anything he would find he’d just break or melt or wreck. His heart is racing, he's having trouble breathing. He wraps the blankets tighter around himself and pulls his pillows and blankets around his ears. He tries to find the sound of his heartbeat and tries to feel warm, to remember warmth.

He tries not to think of Normandy.

* * *

 

The rain continues on into the next day, grey and wet. The clouds hang heavily in the sky.

He wakes up late that morning. Jo has left his breakfast tray on the tea table near the fireplace and Castiel smiles at it. He climbs out of bed and puts on a dressing robe and picks up a piece of toast, damp with butter. He nibbles at it.

He wipes his fingers on a napkin and walks to the closet, to look at the clothes.

They never had so much money that Castiel did not dress himself, but when Michael returns, Castiel will be given a handmaid- a young omega- to help him dress and do his hair. For now, though, he is afforded the freedom to wear his own clothes. He does not have much formal clothing or finery from before and he suspects that there is storage for other members of the house in this closet because right next to the gowns and dresses that he knows Michael will expect him to wear are the trousers and shirts that he favors himself. They hang there, the gowns. The high collars and wide skirts that were in fashion before the war and even a few that are new- gowns Michael would have bought with him in mind.

There is a long one in blue with crystal sewn to the skirt.

Castiel grabs a pair of trousers and a clean shirt and dresses for the day.

He heads down the parlor, where Jo has set a fire. He smiles at it and at the tea cart next to his favorite chair.

If Anna were here, he would ask her to play the piano. There is a small one tucked in the room and he loves the sound of the music, even if he was never much at playing himself. When Michael comes back, Castiel will ask him to purchase one of those lovely phonographs so he can listen to music whenever he desires.

He sits in the room and knits for a few hours, the only sound the fire and the ongoing rain  to keep him company.

Eventually, though, his stomach growls and he knows he needs something more than tea. He gets up and walks to the kitchens, with the intent to maybe heat up some stew when he runs- full body- into the gardener.

Dean.

He looks pale. Exhausted. Like he didn’t sleep at all last night.

“Good afternoon,” Castiel greets.

“Afternoon,” he replies. “Jo wanted me to tell you- she’s gotten word from the milkman that Anna stayed the night at Gabriel’s house in town. She’s there with a mutual acquaintance of theirs- someone named Charlie?”

Castiel nods. “Thank you,” he answers. “Have you eaten?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” Dean says by way of answer.

Castiel frowns. “So no, you haven’t,’ he says.

Dean pauses. “The storm...put me off,” he answers. “I apologize. I should be fine by dinner.”

Castiel sighs. “You must eat,” he says. “You work hard, outside, and if you’re to keep your strength, you must eat every meal.”

“Sir,” Dean says, “I’ve been longer with less, I promise. I’m just feeling a little queasy.”

Castiel pauses in space near Dean and looks at him. “You said the storm put you off,” he says.

Dean nods. “Yes, sir,” he answers.

“Are you doing well? We are not yet through it,” he continues.

“Yes, sir,” Dean replies, a little too quickly.

“Are you just saying that,” Castiel says, “or do you mean it?”

“I’m fine!” Dean exclaims, suddenly. “Really! Just- please- I’m- I’m sorry.” He sputters the end of the sentence as if he has realized his outburst. His error.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats. “I’m sorry. The thunder- I barely slept.”  
Castiel realizes suddenly that he is shaking and that his heart has sped dangerously in his chest. Terrified.

There is an alpha in this house with him.

Dean looks pale and sick for a moment, and then he turns around and goes back into the kitchen, towards the servant’s quarters.

Castiel falls back against the wall, the smell of _alphaalphalalpha_ , alpha anger lacing through him like a shot, like a fever.

He sits there for a few minutes, steadying himself, and then he stands and goes upstairs.

* * *

 

His heat shoots through him the next day, suddenly, as the rain clears away and his sister returns.

He aches and burns. It leaves him feeling empty and broken and torn inside. He howls through it. He screams though it.

There is no one in this cold house to tell him to be silent, and no one in this house to put a knot in him and fill him full of children so he’ll never feel like this again.  It is worse than it was last time, the ceramic knot too small, too cold even when heated by Castiel’s own body. It cannot satisfy him, worse than it was before. He mewls, he moans, he cries, he screams and screams and screams.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

The October cold finally seems to have come with the rain, and Dean works outside in an oiled canvas slicker to keep dry as he continues to plant trees and move sod lines. The garden is going to be ugly through the winter- he had talked to Novak about it as he drew up plans- but the trees should bloom right up in the spring and he can bed them densely with petunias before slipping in summer annuals. He’s been working for two or three days by himself- he hasn’t run into Novak since the night after the storm.

Dean feels hot fear settle into his veins.

He’s probably lost his job and he just hasn’t been told yet. He spends the whole day outside with his jaw clenched and aching and his hands gripping the wooden shovel handle to give himself blisters. He works anyway, though, because without working the ongoing symphony of find Sam find Sam find Sam becomes so loud he cannot feel his own heartbeat.

He doesn’t sleep well even when the weather is fine and clear.

He’s wedging a stone hidden under the sod to clear way for a decent bed when he hears someone behind him.

"You're an alpha," a woman says.

Dean turns around and it's the omega maid- Joanna.

Dean leans on his shovel, panting slightly. The stone is pretty big, bigger than he thought it would be and it's taking some work to get it up.

"What's it to you?" Dean asks her.

She's wearing dark, simple clothes. A plain dark frock and a simple white apron. Her clothes are well pressed and cleaned. Her hair is shot with blonde and where it pulls out of her braid slightly curled. The stray strands catch in the fine mist that's been falling all day.

"Master's in heat," she says.

"Isn't that what Master's got a mate for?" he asks.

Joanna pauses a moment, looks confused. "He's not been wed yet," she says. "And Master Michael may not make it back from war."

Dean looks at her for long time.

Out here, in the grey and windy weather, she looks quite beautiful. Like a painting by the Romantics that Sam knew so much about- that Sam _knows_ so much about.

"He hired me to garden," Dean says. "Not to be his stud."

"It's the third day," she says. "He has all of the...all of the porcelains and still he's still..." She gestures, expressively.

Dean shakes his head. "I'm just a gardener, Miss Joanna."

"You have a duty," she says, "to the master of the house."

"I have a duty not to rut the virginal bride of the master of the manor," Dean says. "Fill a porcelain with warm water and give him ginger broth and Kellog's Cereal but Miss Joanna, I _cannot_."

She stands there a moment more.

"My name is Jo," she says.

She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and walks back to the house.

Dean watches her go. He pulls his raincoat around himself securely. He drives the shovel down deep under the stone.

* * *

The heat finally breaks, and Castiel is _tired_.

There's the thin, spicy broth that Jo made and the cereal that's supposed to reduce his unnatural desires. He's eaten his fill of those though, and more than anything he wants some _meat_. He's starving.

He pulls himself under his blankets a little more though, cold now that the fever has passed.

Castiel remembers the day it happened- the day they knew.

He had suspected, but he’d never said anything. Because to say it would be to make it real somehow, and to have made it real would have guaranteed him the disappointment he always thought himself to be.

He remembers the slap.

He remembers the week spent locked in his room.

He remembers the silence between them afterwards.

His door opens. Jo brings a full tray in. Picks some things up and leaves.

He can't decide if the mindless fever of the heat is worse than the incredible lonely emptiness of his waking life.

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

 

November comes. There is a fire burning hot and bright in the hearths, only in the rooms that are open, though. There are so many rooms in this house, and so many of them are sealed tight, their furniture and paintings covered with white sheets.

Castiel wears the warm woolen sweaters from the back of the closet and he sits in front of the fire and he knits and knits and knits.

He hasn't opened the letter from Michael.

It came a week ago, and Castiel hasn't been able to pull it out of his pocket. It sits like a lump of hot iron there, accusatory.

Every once in a while, Castiel's fingers float down toward the envelope.

Anna steps into the room. Her hair is braided into an elaborate red plait. It trails down her back. She wears her coat, a grey blue color with shining brass buttons and black trim on her arms and torso. She holds her hat in her hands.

"You need to get ready, Castiel," she says. "The League is meeting today."

Castiel closes his eyes and exhales slowly.

He hates The League.

* * *

"Castiel!" She exclaims as he walks into the room. "Is that a new coat? The velvet is so _decadent_ and the fur trim is lovely!"

Rebecca, but she goes by Becky. Nouveau Riche and... _vivacious_.

Castiel tries to smile at her, her curled brown hair and garlands of silver and pearls and sizably swollen middle- her _third_ by a rather small, nervous artist.

"Thank you, Becky," Castiel says softly.

He is the only one in the room wearing trousers. There are long, pleated dresses in softly color on the men and women in the room. Jewelry. Rings. Tight ribbons on necks.

Castiel glances down at his own finger.

He hasn't thought about his engagement ring.

It was an heirloom, obviously. A possession of a departed grandmother- an omega matriarch.

It is the largest diamond in the room- Becky has told him so no less than four times.

At the front of the room, a young woman with soft waves of dark hair smacks a gavel on a podium and announces, "Please, may I have order? I call to order this meeting of the Omega's League of West Eden."  
There's the sound of settling as the dozen or so people in the room sit down in the wooden chairs arrayed around the podium.

A banner trails down the podium, in the light green and gold colors of the National League.

Chapter 777, it reads.

"It is so lovely to see all of you here with us this afternoon, particularly as so many of you are hearing news."

Pamela has an authoritative voice, loud and clear. Her eyes are dark and her hair is piled on top of her head in a messy bun, loose and lovely.

Pamela comes from old money- _ancient_ money. She will never marry unless she wants to, unless it's her explicit desire, and then it will be to someone willing to submit to her strange moods, her tempestuous demands, her midnight séances and fits.

Castiel's never been to one of them, but he's heard stories.

"Although some of our men are coming home, it is looking more and more as though they must prepare for a protracted struggle," she announces.

  
_Back by Christmas_ , Castiel remembers.

"With this in mind," she continues, "I propose another drive for Christmas packages to be sent to France. We will of course need socks, hats, and small gifts such as hard candies and cigarettes."

  
_Same as last year,_ Castiel recalls.

There is a light tittering of agreement.

"I also propose a midwinter mixer for the returning officers," she says. "Some of the officers will be back in time for Ephiphany and I believe it would be lovely to have a formal for them."

There is a _loud_ tittering of agreement.

"We would of course, need a good hall in which to host them. As I have already offered Emberly for their quartering, we should probably host the formal elsewhere."

There is a heavy, pregnant silence.

Castiel realizes, suddenly, that they want to use Enoch.

He closes his eyes  and feels the future spread out in front of him.

He's going to become the prime omega of the most prominent line in the county. He's expected to do these things.

This is supposed to be his life now.

"Enoch Hall could host a formal," he announces.

Pamela looks at him, dark eyes assessing. Judging.

She's been pushing for this, like Anna. She's asked him to be treasurer, to be vice chairman, she's invited him to quite teas in her own garden.

"Thank you, Mr. Novak, that's quite generous of you," she says, and she bangs the gavel once again.

Castiel smiles, the lie of the smile that it is.

* * *

He steps out of the hall, a cucumber sandwich and a cup of tea sitting in his stomach and the knowledge that in a month, there will be a formal held at Enoch.

There will be so much to _do_.

Anna waits for him at the department store, not too far a walk from the meeting hall.

He walks alone, the thought of more small talk with Gilda or Daphne or Pamela or _Becky_ making his skin crawl.

Anna steps out of the department store as Castiel approaches it and she offers her arm. He takes it and they walk together, up the avenue towards the wandering lane leading to Enoch.

"I have been volunteered," he says, "to host a winter formal for the officers."

Anna nods, sagely. "We'll need more staff. And we'll need to re-open the ballroom."  
Castiel nods himself.

"And we'll both need something to wear," she says.

Castiel is not looking forward to this.

His future stretches ahead of him.

Winter formals, Omega's Leagues, and children. So many children.

He feels so empty.

Where he had anger, he now has emptiness.

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

With November comes the serious winter work. There's the beds that have been put in, there are the trees laying roots, there are the shrubs and rosebushes wrapped in the burlap. He's got row after row of bulbs he managed to put in this fall waiting to come up.

He's in the process of re-laying some of the stone for footpaths, and every day he splits some of the wood to place in the fireplaces in the few open rooms.

With Michael, the Alpha, gone the house is mostly empty. Sealed and shut and closed away.

Dean's never met Michael, although if he ever does meet him, he's sure he'll have to address him as nothing more than _sir_.

His name, his presence, is _constant._ It was constant before Dean had a name to give him and it's even worse now. The painting in the sitting room, the curve to the archways, this _garden_ he's building out here. The look in Novak's eye.

Once a week, Dean goes out into town to buy a packet of cigarettes for him and Jo and to pick up the mail for the hall. Letters come for the comely sister, with her red hair and stern green eyes and every once in a while, a battered envelope comes for Castiel, addressed in neat, curling script.

Dean read the last one that came. He held it over the kettle as it boiled, the steam unsealing the glue. No sealing wax on the front.

  
_Castiel_ \- it had read.

_The war continues. Here, in the trenches, I fear I may never be warm again. The rain is almost constant and the cold is unlike any other. I cannot feel my fingers and toes and I have never been so long without being warm. Only the knowledge that I bring great glory to Enoch and our country is my comfort. I know that the war must end- I am told that the Germans are beginning to run out of supplies, although given that the men ate the horses not three weeks ago, I do not feel optimistically about our own supplies._

_I pray Gabriel keeps you well. He is an odd man, but loyal,  I believe._

_I pray I may see you by the year's end._

  
_Michael_.

Dean had resealed it and left it on the breakfast tray for the next morning.

There had been no warmth to it. No feeling. There had been no _love_ , or _yours_ , or affection. It had been _nothing_. It had been a report from the front.

Dean remembers the letters from the front, the kind Sam wrote to Jess, her fine blonde hair and bright eyes; the kind Benny and Adam had written. The portraiture they had carved into the soft chalk walls of the tunnels under the earth, the shapes of their jaws, their hair, their thighs, their breasts.

This letter, there is nothing of that in this letter.

It's not that Dean doesn't watch Castiel- not that he doesn't  _see_ this strange, quiet man. He spends most of his time inside now that the winter has come, but sometimes he walks through the skeletal shape of the garden in winter, he checks the burlap, he pulls off his gloves and feels the bark.

He makes piles and piles and _piles_ of damn socks for that Omega's League, but he doesn't seem interested in their company. The only person who comes is the short man with the cane, and Jo has told him that he's a brother of the absent Alpha.

He closed off, this lonely beast in the house. Withering away like a hothouse flower.

Dean catches glimpses of him sometimes, on his walks, during the meals he takes in the kitchen or in the long room.

Dean wishes there was something he could do, could take him dancing with the comely lasses or out to the lake at the edge of town where the waterbirds drift slowly, could tell him the kind of stories Benny told him on the front- anything.

But it doesn't matter how close Novak is, he's miles away. Promised to a big Alpha with lots of money and a big house; quiet and strange in his tower.

They live in two different worlds.

Dean swings the axe back down heavily, and the wood splits under it with a cracking echo.

He gathers what he's chopped and wanders over to the woodbox near the kitchen.

He loads it, mostly full, and walks inside. His hands are cold, even through the gloves, and he'd like to warm them near the stove.

And suddenly, the kitchen is full of other people.

There's two or three women in starched white aprons working on the stove and around them buzz other servants unloading china from the locked cabinets and washing it.

A woman looks over at Dean with sharp, dark eyes, and says demandingly, "Who are you?"

She's the cook, Dean realizes. "I'm Dean," he answers. "Winchester, the gardener."

The woman looks at him critically. "Miss Novak said nothing about a gardener," she says.

Dean shrugs. "And yet, here I am," he says. "I've been part of the staff since...as Master Novak is off at war."

The woman looks back at him and says, "Master Novak is here, Mister Winchester. Master _Enoch_ is at war."

Dean closes his eyes and clenches his jaw.

He remembers these people in Lawrence, before the war. Servants in the big house, thought they were so much _better_ than him because they were close to the Masters and the Sirs and the Ladies. Ganged up on him and Sam in bars; said shit about the kind of learning Dean could afford to get his brother.

"Forgive me," Dean answers. "I was brought on long after he had left. I have not had the _pleasure_ of meeting Master Enoch, only Miss Novak and her brother."

The woman glances over at him, suspicious. "My name is Naomi," she says. "And if I'm not mistaken, you have quarters towards the back of the grounds and plenty of work to do outside. There is to be a formal here in four weeks time and there is _much_ to do, particularly on those _disgraceful_ gardens."

"They're in _winter_ ," Dean says, firmly. "And we're in the process of changing the major design- of course they're in rough shape, they're putting in growth underground, not above, if you just wait until spring-"  
"That's enough, Mr. Winchester," she says. "You have work just as I do, I would recommend you get to it before we have to have a conversation with Miss Novak."

Dean storms out of the kitchen. 


	9. Chapter 9

 

Dean doesn't see Novak. He doesn't see _anyone_ actually, out at the back of the property. There's a small cottage, with a fireplace and  a small stove and a sink with icy water inside. It's just one room, but Dean doesn't need much more. Still, if the house was lonely before, with the quarters and kitchens stuffed full of servants, Dean is _alone_. Actually _alone_. With them there, Castiel cannot go outside and pull the rocks out of the dirt with Dean or help with the large rolls of burlap or say those quiet things he says.

So Dean wakes up every morning and goes out to the garden and he works. He works and he tries not to think about the big house, about aprons and servants and masters, and he tries not to think about Sam.

His brother had smiled, in the way Sam had always smiled. Like he was broken somehow, like the whole world was broken somehow.

Dean remembers it. He remembers every detail of Sam he can- his laugh, his voice, his tall body and his floppy hair and his open, honest face. Dean holds onto it as closely as he holds onto his few memories of his mother.

He looks out at the big house, the drapes coming off the windows, the smoke billowing off of all the chimneys.

* * *

The house burns with activity and people, and everything about it makes Castiel _dizzy_. He spins with it, with the maids in their black dresses and white aprons, with the new chef and her _stern_ face, with the footmen, with the maid who dresses him, who presses his sheets, who brings the breakfast tray and the paper every day.

He still can't bear to open the letter.

The formal is in two weeks, and he is stifled; he is entrapped; he is suffocating.

Anna is doing most of the planning, with Gabriel's help. There will be bunting hung from the tops of the ballroom; there will be lace; there will be musicians; there will be much to eat; there will be the officers.

Castiel has had  a dream these past three weeks in which  Michael is among the officers, in his olive green uniform and cold, cold eyes.

He's never sure what happens next, he always wakes up.

He looks out of the windows, at the garden in winter, and he feels his heart ache.

Now, the shrubs and trees are wrapped in the brown burlap but he can see their coming bloom in the spring, he can see their roots spreading under the earth.

He misses the dirt under his nails, he misses the sweat, he misses the quiet company of Dean next to him.

He and Dean never said much, but there was a comfortable quiet between them. A companionship all its own. And now, he doesn't even have that.

He sits in the library with a novel- something written by one of the Romantics-  reading when Gabriel comes in.

"Castiel," he says, "you've seemed more taciturn than usual. Would you like to maybe go out to the pub or something? Maybe take a stroll about a park?"

He doesn't really have a reason to say no, but the idea of actually going out of the house is appealing, away from the cook and the servants.

"Perhaps we could go to tea," Castiel answers.

Gabriel shakes his head. "There will be plenty of time for dignified teas when Michael gets back. Let me buy you a pint, Cas. You look like you're going to burst a vessel in your forehead if you frown any harder."

"What if Anna-"

"Anna's already made all of the decisions for this formal Pamela volunteered you for and everyone can tell you're miserable. Please. Let me buy you a pint and get you out of this house. I grew up here. I know what it's like," he interrupts.

Castiel looks out the window, at the tall trees wadded in their protection, at the distant figure of Dean digging and trimming.

"Let me put on my coat," he answers.

* * *

Dean hears the brother's car roar away from the drive. It echoes over the cold, early winter air. December is coming in but three days, and after that Christmas and then Epiphany and the formal. Apparently it's being thrown for some of the officers, back from the front. A few weeks leave before being sent back to the front.

Dean feels the ache in his chest from the bullet. It happened right before they stopped sending men home for being injured, and the wound probably saved his life. He won't have to go back to suffer gangrene or the cold mud or the sounds all through the night.

All through the night.

He freezes, and for one blinking moment he can feel the snow on that day and he can see them- he can see their helmets and their uniforms. He can hear their voices, the harsh murmur of their language.

He blinks again and he's back, in the garden he's building.

He shakes his head.

There's a cough behind him.

Jo stands there, in her black dress and white apron and blonde hair. She holds a package tied in a white handkerchief.

"Naomi has made you dinner," she says.

Dean takes the package.

"She doesn't like you," she says.

"I know," Dean answers.

"Watch out for her," she says.

Dean nods.

"She'll have you sacked if you're not careful," she says. She walks away, her shoes leaving crunching footprints on the frost.

Dean grabs his shovel and against the slow setting of the early winter sun, he walks back to the cottage.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Castiel has been there for over a year when Gabriel brings him a toy.

"It's a camera," he says. "To take photographs. Down in the village they tell me this model is pretty simple- even a few kids have saved up and gotten them."

It's made of dark imitation leather over light metal. When Castiel removes a strap, it folds forward, the cardboard and fabric unbending to bring the round lens forward.

He's never had such a thing, although he's seen them occasionally.

"It's a Brownie," Gabriel says. "No. 2C Folding Autographic."

Castiel holds it to his eye, viewing out.

"I don't know how to develop film," he says.

Gabriel shakes his head, his shape bent slightly by the curved lens. "Don't have to know- lads down at the shop can develop it for you. Can even send your gardener or one of these servants you've acquired to have it prepared for you and get more. I thought you might like something to do- maybe to document the progress on the garden or anything to do other than knit those goddamn socks for the league."

Castiel barely suppresses a laugh at that.

"Thank you," he says softly.

Gabriel smiles back at him, his eyes bright and kind.

"I need to get back into town," he says. "Lord only know when the ladies up the hill will need me."

Castiel sits in the library with the camera and looks out the windows at the beginnings of the garden.

He holds it up and careful of the mechanism, pulls the shutter button.

There's a shucking sound as it opens and as he releases it.

* * *

The formal draws closer and closer and Dean is being driven slowly insane.

They've moved tables outside, right in the way of his work removing the straight stone walkways. They've started construction on the veranda, gradually nailing up bunting and putting out candlesticks. He can't try to dig a hole or put bulbs in or work on the edge of a bed without a servant running into him or asking him a question or demanding that he help move a case of something.

And then there's Novak.

Novak's gotten himself one of those shutterboxes that Kevin used to have, and the thing seems permanently attached to his hands. If it's not the servants behind him, it's Novak wandering through space, red cheeked and brow furrowed with the camera either held near his eye or at his waist, fingers cranking the shutter.

Dean turns around one afternoon, maybe three days before the formal, and Castiel is there, with his camera.

"Jesus," Dean exclaims, and then, "Sorry, I mean- you startled me, sir."

Castiel shakes his head. "Please," he says. "Don't." He fiddles with the camera, folds the lens back into the body of the camera. "Please," he repeats. "You and Anna and Gabriel...you're the only ones who treat me like I'm human." He pauses and looks at the ground. Against the dead grass and dirt and the slate grey December sky he looks like a figure glowing. They're barely days from Christmas eve, and soon Dean will cut down a tree and pull it into the great room to be decorated for the party. Now though, there is just the breathless cold, the greyness, the browns. The colors of the front.

Castiel, though, his skin is in the warm colors of blood and flesh. His dark hair peeks out from under his hat, his blue eyes like bright gems. The collar of his tan overcoat is pulled up close to his face.

"We had to hire all these servants," he murmurs. "And they all bow and curtsy and say _yes_ sir and _no_ sir and-" He pauses.

He turns and looks back at the house.

"I hate being invisible," he says.

He turns back. He lifts the camera slightly.

"May I?" he asks.

Dean feels his brow furrow.  "Uh, sure," he says.

He backs up a little bit, the lens unfolded from the camera and held at his chest.

He snaps it, shutter rushing open, sliding closed a few moments later.

He folds the lens back into the body of the camera and walks back toward the house.

He'll never get this goddamn garden done, but it's good to see Castiel actually out of the house. Actually doing things.

Jo approaches him and says, "The formal is tomorrow."

"Is it?" Dean asks. He leans on the axe- they need more firewood given that the fires are going to have to burn hot and long into the night.

Jo nods. "You're to come washed and in the suit Anna has sent for you at no earlier than eight o'clock. If anyone asks, you're from a ways off. You've already served your tours-"

"I _have_ already served," Dean spits. His chest aches.

Jo's eyes are a warning.

Dean closes his eyes and looks away.

"Why do they want me there?" he asks.

"I'm just the messenger," she replies. "All I know is that Lady Anna has had a suit prepared for you."

"I'm an Alpha," he says. "Of no station- she _has_ to know that."

"I don't _know_ why she's done this, Winchester, just be _presentable,"_ Jo stresses.

The formal draws nearer and Dean's been sucked into the insanity.

* * *

At least he gets to wear a suit.

It's the same suit that he wore to the engagement, dark and shining, tailored close to his body. His hair is combed slick away from his forehead, unruly though it is.

Anna looks at him, in her dark red dress and trail of garnets glittering darkly at her throat.

Castiel suspects that they are more gifts from Gabriel, who seems charmed by her although uninterested in any kind of marriage.

She offers her arm and Castiel nods.

They step out of the living quarters and to the long staircase leading down towards the formal.

The rooms are full. In the ballroom, glowing bright with candles, omegas from the league spin with officers in their dark uniforms, floating to the slow, deep sound of the strings. A tall Christmas tree stands in the great room and the long parlor, the un-curtained windows letting the light of candles on the tables and veranda outside.

Pamela, in a gown the color of cream, glides to them. Her eyes are dark, mischievous. "I see you have done great work here, Castiel," she says, her voice sounding like she knows some kind of secret. Beautiful, in her powerful kind of way. "Perhaps the League should throw more formals, with your hospitality of course."

Castiel bows his head. "Lady Pamela, it has been an honor," he replies.

All of his best manners tonight. Every nicety he can bear.

She takes Anna's arm. "Lady Anna, I have some young gentlemen you may be interested in meeting."

They glide off, leaving Castiel alone.

He moves toward the champagne, tall, thin stem and low, flat bowl. He sips at it, feeling the effervescence of it travel all the way down him.

He turns around, and standing in the doorway to the gardens is Dean.

Singular.

  
_Beautiful_.

When he'd had the picture developed, he had stood in his room and looked at it for hours, every detail of it, every shape of it. He wished, fervently, that he had a way to pull color into it instead of leaving it in the muted browns of the winter outside.

Dean's legs, bowed in his wrinkled workpants. His hair, determined to stick up in every direction. His eyes bright and thoughtful, always calculating, always withholding something, the things he cannot say as Castiel has become society property, high and mighty and known.

Castiel hates it, hates what hangs between them unsaid. Unknown.

His hands resting softly on his image.

He'd asked Anna to let him come.

Nothing can come of it. Nothing good, at least.

Dean's suit fits him well- about the same size as Michael, actually. The dark material reflects light like onyx. His expression is intense, and so beautiful.

Castiel wishes he had his camera, which has become a kind of constant companion.

Dean seems to see him and his expression shifts. He smiles, his green eyes crinkling softly.

Castiel places the champagne glass back down and flits between the officers and the omegas from the league to Dean.

"I feel ridiculous in this monkey suit," he says.

"You look quite nice," Castiel says.

He doesn't say _dashing_ or _handsome,_ even though they hang so largely in his mind.

They step outside, into the frigid December air.


	11. Chapter 11

Castiel's hair is slicked backward properly, and his suit fits around him sharply, authoritatively. The darkness of it reflects the darkness of his hair. It brings out the blue brightness in his eyes, shimmering and secret and strange.

It makes the scar ache.

"I don't know why your sister wanted me here," he murmurs. The sound of the dancing, of the strings, is echoing and murmurous behind him. Every once in a while he hears a peal of laughter, high and clear.

Castiel looks at him and crooks his head slowly to the left, a birdlike gesture. "She didn't," he says. " _I_ did."  
Dean feels something inside of himself burn at that.

They don't say anything as the wander slowly towards the unlit, unfinished parts of the garden, where there is no bunting, no lights.

"Why?" Dean asks.

Castiel looks away from him, out toward an oak that's too large for Dean to transfer- instead he's building a bed about it.

"This wasn't my party," he says. "I'm in the League because it's _respectable_ and it made me look _respectable_ and _marriageable_ and it meant that I didn't have to work so we still looked _worthy_."

There's bitterness thick on his voice.

"I'm in the League because it's my _duty_ and we threw this party because it's my _duty,"_ he continues.

He pauses for a long time.

"I'm invisible. Unseeable. I have _duty_ and I have _obligations_ and-"

He cuts off.

He inhales.

"You talk to me like I'm more than...more than a tool," he says.

Dean looks at him.

"So this Master Michael," Dean murmurs, "he's a duty, too?"  
Castiel huffs out a sudden sigh. He grits his teeth.

"They were so _disappointed_ when I was an omega and Anna an alpha," he says, which is a kind of answer. 

Dean pauses a long time.

"I was in France for four months," he says. "November through February. My brother and I, we were drafted early. Orphans and alphas ad we didn't have any money or prospects or anything, really."

His chest aches.

"Sam was stationed closer to Paris, at least the last I had heard he was," he continues. "We were in trenches and it was raining and I was trying to light a cigarette when I got shot in the chest. Half a centimeter over and I would be dead- at least, that's what I'd gathered from the French doctor. Not that I'm entirely sure what the _hell_ a centimeter is."

Castiel huffs a laugh next to him and it sends a billow of chilled breath out onto the air.

"When I was a kid, I was too _poor_ to be seen and when I was in the army I was a soldier and now I'm here and there are all of these servants in the house and they all think they're so much better because they don't sweat like I do or they don't see dirt like I do- I just-"

He looks at Castiel, his open face, his bright eyes, his full, red mouth, his muscular build under the sharp suit, his skin too tanned to be a good omega.

"I understand," Dean whispers.

It hangs there a moment, and then they are both surging forward, diving forward, gasping forward and Dean is kissing him.

He can really _smell_ the scent of him now, something floral, like orange blossom perhaps and the warm, grassy smell of tea underneath. He smells like a garden, like sunlight and new growth and the moment in March right before the trees burst into bloom, the moment when Dean got home from the front and knew that the bullet had somehow saved his life.

His mouth is warm and soft and his skin is soft and his hands are soft where they cradle his own face. Dean feels the warmth of him, radiating off of him like he is a _sun,_ brilliant and clear.

* * *

Castiel kisses him.

Dean has stubble, rough under his fingertips. Dean has a smell like stones and dirt and something else, something like gunpowder, something firey and strange. This close to him, eyes open, Castiel can see the freckles scattered across Dean's face, the fan of his eyelashes over his cheekbones.

He smell warm and natural and real, not like he's somehow been sterilized and burned away and scrubbed clean-

Not like _Michael_.

Castiel pulls away suddenly, realizing what's happened. Who this is, what this is.

" _Fuck_ ," he whispers.

It's broken. He's broken.

It's all so fucking broken.

Dean is flushed where Castiel pulled away from him, and despite the suit, he looks so natural, so vulnerable.

Castiel pulls back through space to kiss him again. To touch him, to be with him.

He wants this. He only wants this. He suddenly can't care about his mother and father, he can't care about Anna, he can't care about it at all- he can't _care_ it's all gone.

He just wants Dean.

"I'll pack a bag," he says. "I'll take the jewelry and we'll leave. Plenty of gardens in the city, we can go. Please. _Please."_  


And Dean, beautiful Dean, Dean is feeling the same thing he is feeling because he nods, a little slowly, a little dumbly.

"Come back to the party," he says. "We've done nothing."

Dean nods.

They walk, briskly, back to the house. The music has quieted, and there is clapping and cheering.

"Pamela must have given a toast," Castiel murmurs. "Don't worry about it."

They walk inside, into the golden light, and Castiel feels his blood turn to ice- the December air practically a sauna behind him.

He stands in the center of the room, leaning on a cane, a bandage on his face.

"Castiel," he says. "Beloved. Betrothed."

It's _Michael_.

And it feels like everything inside of him has been broken all over again.


	12. Chapter 12

Castiel walks forward, in the breathless silent room to stand beside Michael.

He pecks a chaste kiss on his cheek, right beneath the bandage on his eye.

"Michael," he says softly. "How happy it is to have you home for Christmas."

Michael's eyes are still cold, but there is the barest glimpse of something else- something _there_. He wraps his arm around Castiel's waist, but he still leans heavily on his cane.

"I would dance with you," he says, "but I fear my dancing days are done."

"You have just come home," Castiel says, and he feels like he is detached from his body. "You will want to wash up and rest and-"

"There will be plenty of time for that later," Michael says. "Let us sit in the Long Room."

Castiel follows him, pulled along.

Suddenly, he is a ghost again.

* * *

Master Michael looks nothing like the man in the portraits, but Dean knows that he doesn't look he did when he went off to war anymore either.

His greens indicate that he's an officer, but his injuries mean that he wasn't one of the ones in the warm tents all the time or far from the front in Paris. There is an echo of space around him- Lady Anna and the woman from the League stand just to the side.

Lady Anna looks as if she has been struck lightning.

Her eyes slip from where Castiel stands with Michael to look at him.

And in her gaze, she communicates _worlds._  


  
_Leave_ , she says.

Dean walks out of the house and goes as quickly as he dares, without running, to the cottage at the edge of the property.

He has to leave.

He can't have him. He'll never have him. And he can't-

  
_Fuck_ , he can't.

* * *

Michael sits next to the fire and his skin is flushed, warm.

He settles gently, comfortably, and Castiel sits beside him, hands on his lap.

"Are you home- are you home _forever_?" He asks.

"Yes," Michael answers. "There was a grenade. They won't need many officers without an eye and a bad leg. And it was time, I thought, after so long, for us to finally marry."

"Of course," Castiel answers.

He feels like a ship without an anchor. Bereft. Broken.

"Of course, mother and father and I had the whole thing planned before I left. We should be able to be wed before the second week of January and you should be with child before May."

"Of course," he repeats.

This is all he is.

A trophy. A prize. A mother to heirs.

This is all he will be and all he was meant to be, and what a _fool_ he was to think he could be anything else.

Becky breezes through the Long Room, towards the door out to her carriage. She's wearing a gown in pale, pale blue in a flowing cut, quite modern, actually. The short, nervous alpha on her arm is flushed and clearly rather drunk but she practically glows, particularly with the way her gown spreads over her growing, enormous belly.

Castiel feels his stomach lurch at the thought of it.

"I will call for the tailor in the morn," Michael says. "We will have the gowns made to fit you- you will look so lovely in some proper clothes for an omega."  
Castiel lets his head bow. Looks at the floor.

"Of course," he murmurs.

* * *

Castiel does not sleep.

He lays in his bed, in the room across from Michael's, and looks up at the ceiling. He watches the moonlight track across the room, he looks at the rush of wind, scattered with tiny flakes of thin, white snow battering against the windows. He watches it all, painfully. Aching.

He was there just long enough to see something new, something different, something unplanned and unpredictable and something he would have- something he could have chosen, could have controlled.

He can't even feel the energy inside of himself to cry, to scream, to hit something. He can't even summon the energy to walk forward and throw himself out of the window, to end his suffering.

Everything hurts and he's so tired.

* * *

Dean doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't undress, he doesn't wash, he doesn't eat, he just sits on the chair in the cottage, amidst the noisy silence of the snow outside the window and the pounding of his blood in his flesh.

He should have never come here, never said anything about the wisteria. Should have just rolled on through and looked for Sam.

Now he's here. He's trapped, trapped by this incomplete garden and this man, this beautiful man trapped in a big house on the hill.

Dean gets up and tears the suit off his body. He throws it in the fireplace, re-igniting the barest remains of the fire from earlier in the night.

"God damn it!" he screams. "God damn it all!"

There's a man in that house, a man with his omega, with his- with his mate and his beloved, his heart.

And they're trapped. They're all trapped by the net, this web.

He wishes he could help him fly away. He wants nothing else in the world.

He hates himself, and he hates his raw, rough hands.

* * *

When Castiel wakes up the next morning, there is a full breakfast service for him. There is a simple, tan gown laid over his chair.

Castiel looks at it for a long time, laying among the linens and the blankets.

There's a knock on his door before Jo walks into the bedroom.

"Master Michael is awake," she says. "Your mothers are here and want to talk to you about your wedding. Lady Anna wanted me to make sure you were awake and out of bed."

Castiel looks at the gown.

"He wants me to wear this," he says.

"Master Michael is very traditional," she says.

* * *

Dean works on the back of the garden. He cannot bring himself to see the house, to think of it.

Of the gladiola he put in, of the tulips, of the azaleas and hydrangeas putting down roots- of all of these treasures he made for Castiel, lonesome, quiet, sad-eyed Castiel.

Castiel who is _his_.

Castiel who is _not_ his.

* * *

He sits there, between his mother and Michael's mother, quietly consenting to everything- _yes, tea roses sound lovely, yes I think a lunch would be lovely, I think this would be lovely for the service_.

It all sounds so _lovely_.

Anna comes into the room and says, "Castiel, a tailor has brought something for you- it's set up in a room upstairs."

Her eyes are serious. Her voice is measured, calm.

"Excuse me," he says, and goes upstairs, to one of the guest rooms. It faces the midday sun, the walls painting a cool shade of blue, drapes in a pale gold damask.

It stands there, on a dressmaker's form.

It's made of white silk.

It's in the new style, the kind Anna likes so well- it's short, only to the knees and made of pure, crystal white silk. It has a wide, scooped neckline, would fall deep to his chest. The skirt is thinly pleated all the way around and long crystal beads hang in a fringe about the hem. The whole thing drips in crystal beads, in long vines that wind and twist over the bodice and the seams, making rounds in some places and sharp angular strips in other places. It curves over the hips and chest and waist, making a shape feminine even though the dressmaker's model it's on is shaped like Castiel.

A veil made in white lace hangs nearby.

It is the right shade of white, he realizes, to complement his dark, unruly hair and his bright blue eyes.

He reaches out and touches it, one of these dangling beads rolling in his fingers and he tears it away.

The threads make a crisp snapping sound as he rips it. He grabs more and the beads click and clatter as they fall to the ground.

The fabric makes a rasping sound as he tears it.

Castiel knows he's feeling something in this moment, as he tears apart this thing that was made for him, but he cannot feel it all the way. It is like it is coming to him through a curtain of mist.

He tears the entire dress apart and then he rips the veil into tiny small pieces and then-

Then he screams.

The mist is ripped away from him and suddenly he feels an overwhelming pain, aching to tear out of him. To rip out of him. It won't stop. He's screaming and it won't stop.

He's going to marry this man, this man who sees him as a body to fill this terrible dress.

The door flies open- his mother, with her face _furious_.

She grabs him by the shoulders, her eyes full of fire.

He remembers when he told her- told her that he was an omega, that the slick had come, that the heat had come, that he was-

She slaps him now, too. Two strikes, _hard_ across his face.

" _You will behave yourself!"_ She shouts. " _You will behave yourself and you will be grateful!"_  


She strikes him again, and Castiel goes insensate. Still.

Black.

He's so _tired_.


	13. Chapter 13

When Castiel wakes up, it's on a couch in the parlor. The mid-afternoon sun has made the room cool and blue.

Anna swims into his vision.

"Castiel?" She asks. "Thank goodness." She looks up, says, "He has fits sometimes- it developed after you left for war, we think it's the stress of being unmated for so long. I'm just glad mother _found_ him before he really hurt himself."

Castiel blinks, clearing his vision. Remembering.

"Yes, we've been keeping an eye on it for quite some time," Gabriel says behind him. "He nearly lit himself aflame earlier this winter, it was quite frightening."

"How fortunate he was found before he caught himself in the fireplace, then," Michael says behind him.

The dress, Castiel remembers. The awful dress.

He coughs a few times, clearing his throat. His face and arms are sore.

"Oh, Michael," he murmurs. "I hope the dress is okay, it was so _lovely_."

Michael's grey eyes fill his vision. "Don't fret, Castiel," he says. His voice is steady. "I can always have the tailor make another. I just pray this doesn't happen at the wedding."

"Of _course_ it won't!" His mother exclaims.

He smiles weakly at Michael.

Castiel hurts.

* * *

The suit hangs up, near the fireplace.

Dean hasn't had the chance to return it yet. With the return of the master, all of the servants have been busy.

The only indication that anyone out there remembers he's here is a basket on his doorstep every morning, with his breakfast and supper in it.

He's alone out here.

He looks out of his window, out at the garden. He looks on his bed, where the journal that has the plans for the rest of the garden are written.

He looks at the rucksack at his feet. What clothes are his, his helmet from the war, and a lock of his mother's hair are inside it.

He looks at the house, out of the window, and pulls his rucksack over his shoulder.

He leaves the key to the cottage on the bed.

He walks away.

Nothing can come of this place, nothing can come of this man.

* * *

They keep a closer eye on him now.

If he's not with Michael, he's with Anna or Jo, almost constantly.

It's _exhausting_. Before Michael came back, he spent most of his time alone, with his camera, or with Dean.

Now though, he's always _pretending_. Always _how lovely_ or _yes, course_. And it's so _tiring_. He wants time to breathe, to sit down by himself, to dress himself, to bathe himself.

God, he's so tired and with the constant company, he's more alone than ever.

Michael has been back for four weeks, and Castiel is eating breakfast with him in the long dining room when he says, "I must talk to Raphael about hiring a new gardener."

Castiel looks up at Michael, his spoon resting in his fingers, the oatmeal still resting on it.

"A new gardener?" Castiel asks. "Is Winchester not sufficient?"

"He left," Michael replies. "Quite suddenly, I am told. Clearly he was not interested in a good recommendation."

Castiel feels his heart plummet to the bottom himself, like a great stone dragging him deep under the water.

Suddenly he cannot breathe, he cannot move. He is drowning and the darkness is closing around him, overwhelming and oppressing and suffocating. He is dying.

God help him, he is dying.

He hears his sister's voice, and then he is gone.

 


	14. Chapter 14

It's Gabriel he wakes up next to this time.

He's in his bedroom, the canopy high over his head. It's the mid-morning again, he's only been out for a few hours.

Gabriel has his doctor's kit next to him.

"What did you do?" He asks, his voice hushed.

Castiel looks at him, incredulous. "What?"

Gabriel sits next to him on the bed, runs his hands through his hair. "I told Michael I had to examine you thoroughly, just you and me," he says, his voice quiet but firm. "Castiel, _please_. What did you do? What did you _do_?"  
Castiel shakes his head. "I didn't do anything, I just felt sick and then I passed out-"

Gabriel seizes him then, suddenly. He holds his shoulders firmly. His eyes, brown and gold, are grim. Panicked.

"Castiel, you have physical symptoms of _pining_ ," he hisses.

His eyes are enormous and damp. Terrified.

"Castiel, _who is it_?" He hisses. " _What did you do?"_  


It can't be real.

"It was just one kiss," he whispers.

It couldn't be enough, to tie him so physically, so completely, to him.

Gabriel looks at him, grimly.

"I can give you laudanum," he says. "It will make you slip- it'll ease the pain and make you sleep." He opens his bag. "You will never tell anyone. _Ever_. Because Michael _will_ kill him. And that will kill you."

He pulls a bottle out of the bag and unscrews from it a long dropper.

It turns the glass of water on the nightstand a rusty, red color for just a moment.

He gives it to him.

"Drink this. I'll be here every day to dose you, never more than this. _Ever_ , do you hear me?"

Castiel nods a few times. "Okay," he murmurs.

"And I'm going to tell Michael you're on bedrest," he says.

He looks around the room.

"Jesus," he whispers. "Castiel...Castiel I pray...Castiel, know that I am here to aid you, and I will do all I can to make this as painless as I can for you."

Castiel drinks.

* * *

It makes him feel heavy.

It makes him feel like he's floating, like he's dritfing, like he's going to fall away, through the bed and into the infinity around him.

Anna dresses him.

Mother and father stand to the right of him. Michael to the left.

There are flowers in the room, but not as many as Mother would have liked.

The minister stand before the bed, the book of scripture open.

It is barely whispered, the whole ceremony.

Castiel lays still for the entire thing.

"I do," his whispers.

He cannot feel his heart. He cannot feel his words.

He feels nothing.

He is nothing but this thing.

His wedding night comes.

 


	15. Chapter 15

Dean is sleeping in a barn, maybe thirty miles away from the manor, when he feels a stabbing pain in his chest, right under his left nipple.

It feels like he's been shocked, like something has come out of the air to drive into him.

He gasps into it, breathless for a moment, and then he whines out, broken on the air.

" _Shit,_ " he hisses, holding over the spot where he felt it, where it happened.

He knows what this is. He was warned about this. His father told him, the men on the front told him- they all warned him.

Pining.

He's fucking _pining_.

He knew it had felt real, but this is it-

This is _proof_.

He rolls out of the hayloft, his bag tossed over his shoulder.

He has to keep moving. Has to keep going. If he stops going, he'll turn around. He'll go back. He'll go back and he'll rip that son of a bitch's throat out and-

He keeps going.

Won't do that to Castiel. Won't do that-

He feels it again and this time it makes his knees buckle. He falls over, his hands ground into the earth.

He gasps.

"Whoah there, stranger," someone says behind him. "You okay?"

He blacks out.

* * *

Gabriel convinces Michael to wait before consummating the marriage.

"I understand it's the first night and you have rights," he says, his voice hushed. "But he won't take tonight and he's not well. It wouldn't be any good for either of you."

 Michael lost an eye in the war. He doesn't yet have a glass replacement, and instead a stark white bandage is pasted there. His dark hair looks at odds with it, and his single, steely eye glitters like a single, caught bullet.

"Of course," he murmurs. He leans forward into space and leaves a single kiss on Castiel's forehead.

The laudanum makes him sweat, but Michael doesn't seem to mind.

Castiel feels nothing. He hears nothing, he sees nothing- he is dissolved into a million insensate parts to unfeel across the earth.

The only sensation inside of him is a dull thundering- a pain like a heartbeat that is hidden deep inside of him.

He watches Michael and Gabriel leave the room.

He curls up around the pain, around himself, and closes his eyes.

In his dreams, it's spring.

It's spring, and Dean is with him.

* * *

Dean wakes up under a quilt, in a lamplit room.

"You're awake," a voice says beside him.

He turns.

He's not sure he's actually awake.

"You're _alive_ ," he says, full of a kind of wonder he cannot explain, a warmth inside of him that he has not felt in such a long time.

Sam smiles at him.

His face is a little thinner than Dean would like. His hair is too long, almost to his shoulders. But his face is open and honest and smiling. His eyes are bright, if a little older, a little changed.

Dean pushes off the bed to hold him tight.

Sam's arms are long and hard. His scent is clean and warm.

Home. Goddamn, his brother smells like home.

"How? When?" Dean asks.

Sam leans away from him, and that's when Dean notices the _chair_.

Sam's legs are braced over his trousers. No blanket over them.

Sam shrugs. "Could be worse," he says softly.

"A-are they-"

"Three shots in the back," he says. "I'm lucky. But I'm not going to walk again."

Dean feels like he's going to vomit.

He sits up in the bed. "Whose house is this?" He asks.

"Missouri's," he says. "She's um...she's a friend. She found you, out in the road. What happened, are you okay?"  
"I'll be fine," Dean murmurs.

A woman bustles into the room- small and round, with dark eyes and dark hair and dark skin. "You will _not_ be fine," she admonishes. "Son, you're _pining_."

Sam looks at him, shocked. "You found someone?" He cries out. "You found a-"  
"It's complicated," Dean sighs into his hand. His chest aches, from the bullet, from the distance. "Don't worry about it, I'm handling it," he says.

"Unless you're marching back to them, you're not," she says. Her voice is high and clear but firm. Commanding.

"Is there somewhere here where I could get a job?" Dean asks. "Sam and I uh...well, I don't know about Sam, actually, but I don't have much money to my name and we don't have a homestead to go home to-"

"I'm not about to kick your brother out of my house and you're not about to leave it," she says. She gives him a low dish full of broth. "You need to eat this, you probably haven't eaten and it wouldn't surprise me if you had a fever."  
"I'm _fine_ ," he answers. "Who _are_ you? Why do you- why are you here, Sam?"

"Because she was who was there!" He exclaims. "When I got off the train- she was who was there. She was where I could go- it was with her or with a veteran's home, Dean. And there's not much I can do for her but I try, okay? I do my best to help around the house and she helps me and I take it, okay? Because I need help now."

He looks at his legs, gestures at them stiffly, holding an emptiness with his hands balling slowly into fists that go nowhere. They lower slowly as flat hands that find the wheels and he grips them there for a moment.

Dean feels his brother's anger. His hurt. He smells the scorched earth scent of anger and fear and pain there, something animal to it. Something like the front.

He leaves the room, the sound of his chair on the floors dense and heavy. Nothing like the sound of his footsteps.

"Shit," Dean murmurs.

He's such an _idiot_. He's such an incompetent, such a fool-

He was supposed to protect him and now-

"He'll be okay," she says.

She's sitting on the bed, next to him. Dean, so wrapped up in the low thrum of failure, that he didn't notice.

"It'll take time," she says softly. "And it'll be hard, but he'll be okay. He's closer to it every day."  
Dean looks over at her.

"Now boy," she says, "I knew you were an Alpha the minute I saw you. And I know that you're going to do nothing but hurt yourself and hurt that poor person you're attached to walking away. I can't stop you from walking. I can't keep you here. I can't make you go back."

She looks at him, eyes serious. "But if you value whoever you're linked to, even at all, I would recommend you get there as fast as you can."

"He was betrothed," Dean says. "To power. A manor family. Money. Position." Dean looks at his own hands. Impotent. Powerless.

"I can't give him anything, ma'am," he says. "No money. No position. No job. No home."

Dean's no one.

Michael's _everyone._ A center to a universe.

And Dean can't-

"I can't," he says. "I won't."


	16. Chapter 16

 

Michael sits in his room, in a nursery chair a servant brought in a few days ago. Near the fire- _it's so chill in here Castiel, I do not know how you stand it-_ and he reads.

He reads the paper- _they say the war is ending soon but I'll believe it once I start seeing the men return. Would be nice to see rationing end, though_.He reads poetry-

_Sabrina fair,_

_Listen where thou art sitting_

_Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave,_

_In twisted braids of lilies knitting  
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair;  
Listen for dear honour's sake,  
Goddess of the silver lake,  
_ _Listen and save._

He reads fairy tales- _Once upon a time_.

His voice becomes constant in Castiel's life, although Castiel himself cannot quite bring himself to talk back.

Gabriel comes once a day, like he said he would.

It is almost unbearable in the hours before he arrives. Castiel feels like his heart is bound by a thousand shaking threads and each one is threatening to tear out of him, pull his body out of him. It is torture, and it drives his blood through his veins tightly, drives his temperature through his skin, drives him mad.

When Gabriel gives him the dose, it puts him under, the coolest relief. Away from Michael's voice- his stories, his poetry, his newspapers and fairy tales. Away from Michael and to Dean.

They are days away from the end of February.

Castiel lays in bed, beyond the thrumming sensation and out of dreams and in the fuzzy, furry, shaking place. Lucid but aching.

"How are you this day, Castiel?" he asks.

"I am quite fine," he murmurs. "Tired."

"Perhaps I shall have Gabriel bring you a wheel chair," he says. "I think it would do you well to see the garden- Anna and Gabriel have hired a young man who has continued the work of the man who left and I think it shall look quite handsome. I'm so glad that we've moved in a more romantic direction- it was quite forward thinking of you to prompt that. Well done."

"Of course," Castiel murmurs. "It is my duty."

Michael pulls a book from the shelf. "I have been talking to Gabriel," he says. "Do you think, perhaps...tonight?"

It feels like something has stabbed him, like he is twisting and falling and burning.

"Of course," Castiel replies. "It is my duty." 

Tonight.

_Tonight._

His camera sits on his night table.

His singular photograph of Dean sit locked in his drawer.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Word of Warning: Michael has had sex with Castiel at this point in the story. It's not explicitly discussed but the implication is very strong.

The feeling doesn't go away.

The aching inside of Dean's chest, it leaves him trapped in the house, lucky if he can even pull himself up from the bed. It like when he got shot, a net of agony spread over his chest like everything on him is on fire.

He's been in this house with Missouri and Sam for three days now and the pain keeps getting worse and worse.

The dawn of day four and Sam says, "You can't keep doing this."

His voice is low and calm, but there is a tightness there.

His hair is getting long, long enough that he can tuck long brown locks of it behind his ears to keep it out of his own, thin face.

The war is written on Sam like he is a wax tablet, unerased and re-inscribed.

"This is going to kill you," Sam murmurs.

Dean sits up on the bed, over the quilt Missouri made. "I'd rather it kill me then kill him," Dean answers. "He doesn't marry that guy, Sammy..."

He looks at his brother. "They're traditional, Sam. Real traditional. He doesn't marry that guy..."

"Dean, if it kills you, it'll kill him too," Sam answers.

There's a guttering, daggering pain inside of him and he gasps with it, knocked backward to rest against the wall. He grasps at his shirt, aching. Burning.

"Dean?" Sam asks. "Come on, Dean, please, come back." His hands are on his legs, jitter up to his shirt to pull him forward, hold his face in his hands.

Dean feels it like slipping, like being untied and dragged apart. He feels-

He feels-

Sam looks at him seriously, his green and brown eyes open and clear.

"Deep breath," Sam says. "Don't go back there. Don't go back to that place, you're here. You're here with me in this room."  
The pain is still there, still tangled up but the coldness, the frozen feeling- the February sensation from the front- fades away.

He feels like he's blurring and twisting.

God, he hurts so badly.

* * *

Castiel doesn't remember.

He remembers the _pain_. The clenching, burning feeling in his chest and arms and legs, like all him is made of a deep, dark fire.

The laudanum does nothing. Sleep does nothing.

Castiel lays dying, burning.

There is nothing to comfort him, no thought, no prayer, no hope. Nothing.

His father's debts erased, his mother's re-entry to society, a line of fine heirs for Michael-

There is nothing on this earth for him, to heal him, to make him whole.

Pining, rejected, broken omega.

Everything he ever swore, he prayed he would never be. Dishonorable, dishonored.

He wishes Gabriel could just make him slip away. All the way away.

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

It is completely dark, the sun not yet risen over the hills, when Dean extricates himself painfully from the bed, dresses and walks out of the bedroom to the front door.

Every step is agony. Every footfall shudders through him like an earthquake. Shakes him to the nerves of his teeth and to the cartilage of his bones- makes him feel like he hasn't felt since he was in France.

He walks to the steps of this house and looks out at the road in front of him, the sense of it like a cord pulling him inexorably.

  
_Mate_.

  
_Omega_.

He scratches over his wound, the burning, scratching, stinging.

He steps forward, out into the pre-dawn light.

"I don't know where you think you're going," Missouri says behind him.

Dean turns around and looks at her.

"I've got a horse in the stable," she says. "And you're not leaving the house without a sweater."

Dean _looks_ at her.

So long. It's been so long and the ache, the sting, it's unbearable.

"I'm dying," he says, knowing it to be the most true thing he's ever said.

He's dying, slowly. A rotting death. A living death. He's dying as surely as Castiel is- Dean can feel that, too.

"Sam said you were stubborn," she replies.

* * *

There's a wheel chair that Jo eases him into.

It's March now, and buds have begun to push up from the soil. The trees are beginning to shoot tender, green colors.

Michael doesn't say anything as they wander by them.

He's cold, despite the fact that warmth is slowly coming back to the earth. He has a blanket draped over his legs and a shawl pulled over his shoulders. He shivers constantly, teeth chattering. He's developed a rough cough, and it drives his voice deeper and rougher- when he can speak at all. Whether this is from the laudanum or not, neither he nor Gabriel seems to be sure.

Gabriel is evasive, these days. Ever present, ever unable to answer questions. Michael's questions.

His questions.

When Castiel can find his voice, it is to beg to know that he is still alive out there, his eyes green like the ivy twisting around the house.

  
_I don't know_ , Gabriel always answers. _I don't know._  


The grass is coming back alive, crumpling softly under the turning wheel of the chair. There's a light chorus of birdsong, bright and high in his ears. It strains him- gives him a headache like the bright sunlight- but it cheers him to see the live things.

It is a strange thing, to feel so dead amidst the brightening of life about him.

Michael clears his throat behind him. "Gabriel tells me you should be coming into heat soon," he says. Michael says this methodically, like Michael says all things. Says it as factually as he said something about the stock markets in Manhattan.

Michael has not touched him since he had his wedding night.

"Yes," Castiel answers.

This is something Gabriel _has_ had answers for.

Michael says nothing more.

* * *

It's dusk when the house comes into view.

Dean's saddle sore, but every mile that he's gotten closer to the thing in his chest has eased from being a scorched, burning, broken feeling into something more like a tug. A pull, guiding him.

He rides to the gardener's cottage and opens the door and there's-

There's someone else there.

"Oh," Dean says.

It's an older man, with salt-and-pepper-hair. Dark eyes.

"Son, who in the hell are you?" He asks.

"I'm, uh," he says, "I'm Dean."

His hand skitters over his chest, feeling that wounded place, bonded to him.

"That doesn't do much by way of answerin' questions," he replies.

"I was uh," he answers, "I was the old gardener."

The man stands, a little taller than Dean.

  
_All_ alpha.

He gestures to a journal on the table, the design for the new garden.

"Old gardener drew up the plans for the new garden?" He asks.

Dean nods. "Yes sir," he answers. "The neo-romantic trimming on the wisteria and the re-planting of the beds- that's me.:

The man looks at him a long time and comments, almost off-handedy,  "Left that Omega up in the house pining?"

Dean flinches and feels the aching spot flare back up.

It doesn't feel like there's a match held to his every nerve right now, but that aching feelings, while it's eased, is still omnipresent. Still burning.  

Man huffs, short. "Supposed to rain tonight, son. Might want to hustle up to that house while you can."

And Dean turns. Looks at this house, this garden, this _place_.

A little distant from back here, at the gardener's cottage. Every bit as foreign and terrible as he ever could recall.

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

There is thunder that rumbles slowly through the whole house, shaking his nightstand and the canopy over his bed. It is the only thing Castiel can feel.

He is so tired. So tired.

No sound. No scent. No taste. The barest shape of an image, the barest quiver of sound.

Maybe it is thunder. Maybe it is his heartbeat. Castiel cannot tell.

He blinks. His eyes shut and open slowly, like he is suspended in treacle.

* * *

Dean knocks on the front door.

Rain falls.

The door is opened by a thin man he does not recognize. He raises an eyebrow, clearly at the shabby state of Dean's clothes- the clothes of a working man. Not the type of man who knocks at the front door. But he stands as tall as he can, as firmly as he can. Stiff. Authoritative.

"I am here to see Lord Enoch ," he says, keeping his voice firm and calm.

"May I ask who is inquiring?" He says with a deep voice. Man doesn't have to be looking down his nose, Dean can hear it in the timbre of his voice.

"Winchester," he says. "Dean Winchester." He stops asking. He steps inside. "Tell him I will be in the long room."

And he walks to the parlor.

Walks past Jo, who stops in her dusting to watch him.

Walks past Naomi with her sharp eyes and stern voice.

He steps into the Long Room and looks up at the portrait of the man he is about to meet.

Enoch steps into the room twenty minutes later, his hair damp and slicked onto his head, his clothes pressed and clean. He's clearly just re-dressed himself.

Dean feels his blood turn to _ice_ and then to _fire_ at the thought of what that might mean.

"What is this?" he says, after looking at Dean for a tight moment.

Dean inhales, tries to figure out what to say. Any scent of Castiel that might have been in this room is gone.

"You were wed," Dean says, firmly. Calmly. "A little more than a month ago. My name is Dean Winchester and-"  
"You're the man in the photograph," he interrupts.

Dean stops, the wind taken fully from his sails.

"I- beg your pardon?" he asks.

Enoch shifts his weight from one leg to the other, his cane a heavy presence. "I'm not stupid," he says. "I have been called many thing by many men, but I am not stupid, Mr. Winchester." He walks slowly over to a table and pours himself a glass of scotch, ice cube tinkling in.

"I was gone for quite a long time," he continues. "In the war, as I suspect you were. I did not expect my husband to simply stay at home and _knit_ all the while I was away. He is but a man. And I was not surprised when I arrived and found the scent of _you_ on him. Or the photograph of him in his nightstand. Of course, that did not stop me from removing the photograph or the camera or his negatives. And if you had not had the tact to have left, I would have had you sack immediately. I had expected to never see you again, but it would seem that here you are." He takes a sip of his drink. "So, Mr. Winchester, _why are you here_?"

Dean bites his bottom lip, a nervous habit. He stops. "I am here to arrange your divorce from Castiel," he says.

"Good lord," he replies. "Whyever for?"

Dean looks at him for a long moment.

"I am quite serious in this, Mr. Winchester," he continues. "Why? My husband's parents approached my mother a year before I left for the front and made it very clear to me that he was both willing and desirous and that he came from a fertile line. And Enoch will have heirs, Mr. Winchester, and my reprobate brother has made it very clear to everyone in the family that he will not be the one producing them. We paid their debts, paved the way for his mother and father to re-enter society- one day we may even provide for his unfortunate sister a husband of her own." He looks at Dean with his cold, _cold_ eyes. "Mr. Winchester, for all intents and purposes, Castiel was _mine_ long before you saw my property and he will continue to be mine until one or both of us dies."

Dean sees a thin wisp of lightning through the window. The rain shatters down.

"If you don't let him go with me he will die _soon_!" He exclaims, interrupting.

Michael looks at him. Severely. "Both my brother and my husband seem to be under the impression that I was not aware of what had happened," he continues. "I am pleased to see that you are not so naïve."

Dean feels his blood pound in his head. "You _knew_?" He snarls.

"I am not _stupid_ ," Enoch hisses, throwing his drinking into the fire. The crystal tumbler shatters.

Thunder rumbles.

" _Dean_ ," he hears and he turns and he feels his heart clench in his chest.

Oh god, he looks so thin. So frail.

He clings to the wall. He wears a dressing gown, a pale shoulder peeking out over the edge. He does not look like the man in the garden, digging the holes that would house the trees. He looks frail. His eyes look glassy and sick.

Castiel surges forward and Dean dives through space to catch him, his body too light where it leans against him.

"Get back upstairs," Michael snarls. " _You will get back upstairs_ , _Castiel, this does not concern you."  
_ "What do you _mean_ it doesn't concern him?" Dean snarls. "It's his _life_! It's his _life_ , you son of a bitch!"

Michael's face _twists_. "I am a _Lord_ and an officer and I will not be spoken to in such a way!" He shouts.

Castiel twitches against Dean, lacking the energy to flinch.

"You're _killing_ him!" Dean shouts. "Look at him, you're killing him! You'd just let him _die?_ "

His scent is sickly. Cloying. Broken. He doesn't say anything. His eyes barely open. His skin is sweaty against him.

Dean touches him softly, pushing his sweaty hair from his forehead.

"Castiel is my _husband._ My _property_ ," Michael shouts. "You will let him go, you will leave here, and if you ever return I shall call the police! I shall _kill_ you, Mr. Winchester."

" _Dean_ ," Castiel whimpers.

"He's no one's _property_ ," Dean cries. "He's not your _anything_ , you son of a bitch!"

Thunder rumbles outside.

Dean gathers Castiel in his arms.

Thunder _snaps_ nearby.

He turns away.

"You will put him _down_ , you will put my omega property _down_ ," Michael screams again and then Dean hears the _click_. The slow, telltale click of a gun being loaded.

He turns.

The coldness in Michael has melted away, at least the coldness in his good eye. His face is flushed, his hair disheveled. "I am no _fool_ ," he snarls. "I am no fool and I am not to be trifled with."

Castiel's hand reaches forward and touches Dean's face gently. "Please," he whispers.

Dean curls over him. Around him. Tight. Dear.

Dean feels like his wound is open but the poison has been yanked out.

Dean feels the pain before he hears it- the snap echoing and shattering the air around him.

Feels like it did in France. Hot blood spreads through his shoulder. Burning, screaming pain.

"You'll kill both of us," he says.

"I will be a _widower_ before I am a cuckold, Winchester!" Michael screams.

But then Dean hears more screaming. And then he smells burning.

And then there is more pain but more importantly terrible urgency and overwhelming _heat_.


	20. Chapter 20

He’s not wearing shoes. His feet are soft, but the glass under them is not. He grits his teeth, though, supports the heavy weight against his shoulder. His grip is firm, his pace is steady but slow. But he can’t stop. He won’t stop moving.

He will not leave Dean to die here, in this fire.

The storm outside rages on, clattering against the windows as the fire spreads inexorably through the house. Castiel’s not sure what happened, actually, there was suddenly Dean there and then the gunfire but then the smoke and-

Dean groans where he is supporting him, his weight. His blood is falling freely from his shoulder, a deeper red than any other color Castiel has ever seen.

Not that he can see much, through the smoke.

He doesn’t run into anyone else as he staggers through the house, looking for a door out, a window to fall through- anything. He can’t die here. They can’t die here.

God, he feels so sick. So tired, so hot, so weak.

They can’t die here.

He move through the smoke, past the fire that licks at their calves, their heels, to a door. Any door. Any way out.

When they break out of the smoke, into the cold, clear air of the night outside, he gasps, he staggers forward a few more steps, and then he collapses, Dean beside him.

“Castiel?” he hears someone say, and then it’s cold. It’s blissfully cold.

-

When he wakes up again, it’s gasping and coughing, with pain worming through his body. He’s warm, though, and dry, which is strange. The last time he remembers being dry and warm it was before basic, which means he’s not in the trenches or he’s finally died.

He won’t be dancing on his officer’s grave, at this rate.

He tries to laugh and then he feels a pressure on his chest and he hears noise. Nothing is quiet, and he’s still coughing, can’t get air, god help him they’ve gassed him, they’ve fucking gassed him and he’s going to die.

“Dean,” he hears someone say, and then his vision swims and leaned over him, so close to him it would take no effort, hardly any effort at all, to lean forward and kiss him, is an angel.

Hardly any effort at all is too much, though, and he falls back under.

-

The next time Dean wakes up, it’s for a long enough time that he can focus his eyes and gather that he’s inside and it’s day. The high gables of what looks like a hall are clear and bright with the early spring light. The cot underneath him bows under his weight, curving under his spine. He coughs, and his throat and lungs ache, painfully, but he knows, suddenly, immediately, that it’s not gas.

And then he remembers the fire and the shot and Castiel, who looked so- so delicate.

He sits up as fast as he can, and he feels the icy burn of the gunshot wound in his shoulder. He gasps with it, his vision spotting for a moment before he breathes through it.

The hall is long, stretching onward. The cots around him are empty- nearly forty in the room. He sees the white wings of a nurse’s habit at the end of the room, turned away from him.

He feels that pang again, and he groans.

Castiel.

The nurse turns about and approaches him moments later, and she frowns at him. Her skin is fair and her eyes are bright. The slightest fringe of brown hair peers out from under her habit- not just a nurse but a nun, too. “Sir,” she says. “You’re still quite injured, you must rest.”

“There was an man- an omega with dark hair and bright eyes,” he groans as she gradually guides him downward. “Please- where is he? What happen-”  
“Lord Castiel is quite well, sir,” she says. “He is recovering under the supervision of Doctor Novak at his home in town.”

“Where am I?” He asks, his hands knotting into the starched fabric of her clothes. “What happened? Please, Sister, I-”  
“Sir, you will rest,” she says firmly, pulling a small woolen blanket over his torso. “Had you not been brought to us so promptly, I am quite sure you would not be living.” She places a hand over his forehead, and her skin feels cool, but not so much so that Dean thinks he must have a fever. “You are at the Garrison Abbey, under the supervision of Mother Ellen. I am sister Hannah, your nurse.” She looks at him sternly. She is maybe a couple of years older than Dean but she looks fresh and new like a lily. “You are healing. And you will rest.”

And for whatever reason, Dean feels her voice like a command, and he slips back under, to sleep.

* * *

 

His burns are minor but numerous, dotting his leg and back and arms. They sting and ache and burn every waking moment, but at the offer of more laudanum-

Castiel turns it away, every time.

He knows that turning it away is what’s driving his sweating, burning fever and his shaking and the fact that anything other than soda bread or weak tea makes him vomit; but the thought of living on it, that delirium, that dizziness- he can’t stand it.

He hasn’t left the infirmary since Gabriel brought him here, placing him in a small, private room and monitoring him closely, constantly. Anna stays with him too. She reads to him sometimes, her voice steady and calm.

She’d been away, with Gabriel, when the fire started. At some sort of arrangement in town with some friend of his. She is unmarked by it, unblemished. Castiel is glad.

Lightning struck the house, he is told. Moments before the gunfire.

Anna helps him changed the bandages on his back, arms, and legs.

He is a widow now, but as the consummated husband of the last lord, Gabriel is required to care for him, for his sister.

Gabriel doesn’t seem to be burdened by this, however. And as none of Michael’s attempts caught, there will be no heir unless Gabriel weds himself.

Castiel knows that married to Gabriel he would not be made to suffer as Michael made him suffer, but he cannot bear the thought of being touched as Michael touched him. He cannot bear the thought of bearing heirs.

Dean is alive. Dean is alive, and the thought of being separate from him-

Anna places the bucket under his bowed head as he vomits again. He feels his fever flare back to life, and Anna gives him a cup of tea, cupping his head as he sips it weakly.

He falls back under, into his fever.

A week since the fire now, and he must be well for Michael’s funeral in the coming days.


	21. Chapter 21

It's a ruin.

Castiel leans heavily on his crutches and he looks at the burned remains of the manor, where he had lived for nearly two years.

The roof has caved over the central wing of it. The windows are fallen out, streaked with smog in the glass. The doors are still secured over the front of it, though, and Gabriel has told him that the village children have been mostly deterred by the gate at the end of the drive.

Castiel looks at the ruin of the manor. This cold place, ruined. Broken.

It has been months.

Winter has passed. Spring has returned to here, and the sound of sparrows is rich as bright on the air. Castiel's eye catches one of them, flying from the house. He follows it, darting through the air before returning into the house.

"So," Gabriel says, beside him, "I suppose it should be repaired. Not that I want to repair it. At least, not to live there."

Castiel looks over at him, at Gabriel. More than his doctor, his brother in law, his legal guardian. His _friend_ , who is hurting under this burden.

"The law would not let me write the checks," Castiel says softly. "And there would be much to pay for. But I lived here, before."

"You weren't happy," Gabriel says.

"How should that matter," Castiel answers, gripping against the crutch. There's also a folding chair. He can't spend much time standing; his burns still hurt him fiercely, especially since he doesn't use medications. No tablets, no tinctures, no suspensions, no injections. Castiel will burn and ache and _hurt_ this way before he does that all again, no matter how badly he wants it. Or he thinks he wants it.

He is still tired, and weak. He is still healing. He is still _pining_ , damn it all.

"I am a creature of my duty, Gabriel," Castiel continues. "You of all people should know that."

"They don't own you any more," Gabriel says. "And I _won't_ own you. You know that, right?"

The sparrows flit, in and out, through the rafters.

Gabriel doesn't know where Dean went after the fire. He slipped away from the Hospital, suddenly. Soldiers came back, needed beds, and in the stir...he just-

He hasn't found Castiel.

"Why?" Castiel asks. "Why did you...why did you give it to me? Why did you help me _hide_ it?"

Gabriel looks down. He is leaning against his car, but he still grips his cane firmly. He looks shamed.

"I thought maybe it would be kinder to let you die on your own terms than to be killed by Michael. Or at least, to not have him be cruel to you. More cruel than he was."

He pauses, for a long moment. A cool breeze weaves through the air, invading the weave of Castiel's suit.

Gabriel lets him buy his own clothes. Lets him dress himself.

"My brother was not a good man," Gabriel says. "And he liked to _own_. Things. People. He liked to control them. And I didn't want him to...you didn't deserve his cruelty. And you didn't deserve the _pain_."

Castiel looks at him for a long time, before he says, "What happened? To you? Why do you know?"

Gabriel smiles, just barely. "That adventurous youth...in India. She was...beautiful. And strong. A _fire._ And she burned me as often as she kept me warm." He doesn't laugh, but there is something...something more than a sigh. Something pained, and more candid. "She was in a city, a gathering. The soldiers, they opened fire."

Castiel notices the way his hand turns white, gripping the cane.

"More than a thousand died there," he says. "Long live the King, eh?"

The birds, the wind, the leaves in the trees.

The ruin of the manor.

"They found me in a room in Amritsar. I remember holding her, I remember her blood. And I remember coming back to England, but I'm still not sure what happened to my leg or how I got here- I just remember the _emptiness."_  


  
_"_ Does it ever go away?" Castiel asks, softly.

"Not really," Gabriel answers. "But it does become a part of you. And you do...you do know where to _put_ it. The feeling. And you do feel happy again. Eventually."

They watch the light. The shadows grow longer.

"I think, one day, I could be happy here. Not now, but one day," Castiel says quietly.

"Well, you can't live there right now," Gabriel answers. "There's thirty god-damned sparrows living in it!"

And Castiel laughs. Actually laughs. Genuinely.

And they get in the car.

And they prepare to drive away.


	22. Chapter 22

The fire tore out the mansion; gutted the inside. The books in the library are all ash; most of the furniture is scorched; the curtains are, well, curtains ( _ha!_ ). Dean's been in there, though. He's been working.

The dishes and most of the kitchen was untouched. It's fine, actually, no structural or even roof damage there. He's been bringing what can be saved there, from the other rooms in the house. And he's beginning repairs.

It's not easy- the dust and ash irritate his throat and lungs; leave him in coughing, heaving fits if he does too much in one day. He tries to do four hours, every day, when the sun is up. The first thing is to repair load bearing walls and collumns, from the bottom up. Luckily, the basement didn't sustain much damage or the whole thing would sink into the earth that it's built on, and there's been plenty of rope around to splint columns until he can talk to someone about getting actual pillars and collumns in to replace them. He's also working on just getting _something_ covering the roof to keep the rain out, but that means finding the ladder in the shed and then dragging it up, and if Dean's being honest with himself, that's two days of work and not just the one.

His shoulder troubles him, too, and he can't keep it over his head long enough to get meaningful work done on it. It aches constantly, like he's been run through with a red-hot poker. He can't tell if the feeling of it is hot or cold, just that it is a radiant, aching pain.

Dean can work with pain, though. Pain is real. Pain is a lifeline, grounding him here, in reality. In this place.

When he's done in the house, he works in the garden. He's paid to work in the garden, or rather, he was, so it's not really _work_ or rather-

Dean works, because work is real, like pain is.

He's in the garden this afternoon, clearing out the beds under the trees in the back, out near the pergola. It's a ways out, but the walk is nice. He thinks they used to ride horses out there, although where they would keep horses on this property, Dean has no idea. He hasn't seen any stables, and he's sure he's seen every inch of this place.

He looks at the pergola, tall and beautiful in the mid-afternoon sun. It's curved dome reflects the sunlight away from it, and the space beneath is cool and shaded and airy.

It rained recently, and as a result, a fine mist has settled amidst the trees and columns. It's beautiful. It's looks a bit like a ruin, and something about that is satisfying. It make Dean think of the garden they found in Belgium, early in the war. It was part of a fine house like this one; the family had fled. In the morning, right before dawn, it was misty and strange like this one. Overgrown from lack of attention, plants longer and bigger and wilder than they should be.

In the surviving hothouse he saw, the jungle plants were pressing up against the glass, eager for more space; more world.

He wonders, briefly, if anyone will come back to that house once the war ends. He wonders if they will care for the garden again. If the same gardeners will come back.

If he finds a tent in the shed (which is unlikely, but he can hope), he thinks maybe he'll come out here one dry, warm night and camp, see if he can see the stars.

There are some beds out here that haven't been touched in years. Dead bulbs in the soil; mouldering leaves on top. The trees are overgrown and in need of pruning, desperately. The soft edges, though, are retained from earlier years-- that's good. That's less work for Dean, in the long run, but there's still much to do.

He wonders who loved this place once.

He wonders if Castiel loved this place, in the time when he was gone. In the time before he came.

He sets to work, and goes until about an hour before sunset, and then he walks back to the cottage.

He washes in a tub behind the cottage and goes inside. Eats bread and cheese that he gets from the market in the village and goes to bed.

And it all still hurts. It all still _aches_. He feels that connection, that terrible _desire_ pulling at him, like a kite string. It's constant.

But he doesn't know where Castiel is, or how to contact him or how to find him. So he works. And he waits. And he wants.

He tries to sleep, but if it's not the lightning, it's Castiel, collapsing, it's the gunshot, it's the trenches, it's Castiel collapsing into the trenches, it's Sammy's face frozen in a rictus of pain- it's so many things. It's all things.

Dean tries to sleep, but sometimes the sleeplessness is better than the dreams.

This night, though, he sleeps. He sleeps a long time, dreamlessly, until he hears a _sound_ outside, like the slamming of a door.

He darts up in bed and coughs, hacking, against his lungs.

Someone's out there.


	23. Chapter 23

Castiel stands out in front of the house. Gabriel agreed to leave him here for a while, on his own. A big risk, that, given that Castiel still needs his crutches to support the weight of his knee, which was twisted and hurt by the way he brought Dean out from the building. His skin is mostly healed by now, but there are places that will always be scarred and insensate from that. 

Castiel feels so strangely  _ blessed _ by these things that have made him broken. No one will find him beautiful now. No one will pursue him. These things have made him invisible -- not even the League wants to hear from him any more, not becky, not Pamela. 

It’s been about a week since he was here last; a week spent healing more and sleeping more. 

It looks like a different ruin every time he comes back.

Castiel moves himself forward, to the door, which creaks open unevenly on its destroyed hinges. 

The smell of this place is different. 

Wet wood and wet stone. The beginnings of mold. 

How quickly, it changes. 

He goes straight through the foyer and past the stairwell. Through the dining room doors and into the hall that leads toward the kitchen. Out the kitchen door. Down the steps. Now that no one lives here, there are no rules. No one to forbid him from entering the kitchen or using the servant’s door. No one to keep him from all the bedrooms, from destroying the clothes or burning the jewels. Now that it is ruined, it is truly  _ his. _

Down, down, down, he goes, to the yard and into the gardens beyond.

Castiel leans against the stairwell, exhausted, for a moment, and looks out onto the edges of the garden.

It would have been so beautiful.

He can imagine it, the purple wisteria in bloom, drooping heavy and rich. Some of the bulbs have already begun to press themselves up from the soil and a few of the trees have budded, already. The grass is already deep green and overgrown. The pansies have died -- would impatiens ever be placed there? 

Would it have been beautiful? Worth it? If Michael had died in the war? If he had never come back? Would Castiel still be so trapped? 

Father’s debts are paid. They are back, in society, and Castiel gets to be ignored. Anna, too, gets to be left be. 

They all get to be left be. 

Purple and green and red, these gardens would have been. 

He would have walked them, heavy with hated child. 

He stands, and moves slowly down the path toward the pergola, when he hears a voice, distant.

“Castiel?”

He looks up, from the path, and-

His face is covered with a low scruff, like he hasn’t shaved in days. And his clothes seem even more worn than they did the last time he saw him. And his eyes are wide and green but haunted and sad. He’s not wearing shoes. 

Looks as new and vulnerable and soft as the day he was born.

“Castiel?” He says again.

“Dean,” Castiel replies. 

Because it’s him. It’s him. It’s him, it’s him, he came  _ back- _

_ “ _ You came  _ back _ ,” he says.

Dean nods, and the runs forward and he takes him up, into his arms, close and tight and sure.

“It’s you,” he says. “It’s you- it’s you, it’s you, it’s you!” He cries out, grasping Dean as tightly as he dares. Holds him close. Holds him close. 

Doesn’t dare to articulate that close held fear that maybe Dean had died.

“A temporary hospital,” Dean says, “at a different manor, somewhere off. Couldn’t find you. Hoped you would be here and the  _ garden _ , the garden. Been sleeping in the cottage, at the edge. Where I used to sleep.”

“The garden,” Castiel says, laughing. Laughing because he’s here and he’s real. “Marry me,” he says. “Marry me and we’ll tear the house down. Make it all garden.  Marry me.”

“Of course,” Dean replies. “Of course.”

Castiel lets his hands creep around and over Dean’s face. Feels the texture of his beard under his fingers and his skin and his body. Feels him. Feels him. 

Leans forward to kiss him, like he means it, because he does.

“I barely know you,” Dean says. “I barely know you but I  _ know _ . I love you. I barely know you and I love you.”

“I know,” Castiel says. He kisses him again. Dean kisses him back. 

“I love you,” Dean says. 

“I love you,” Castiel answers. 


End file.
